


All Amok

by WerewolvesAreReal



Series: Consequences [1]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Episode: s02e05 Amok Time, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Pon Farr, Suicide Attempt, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 43,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22028401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: Unable to reach Vulcan during his pon farr, Spock logically chooses to take extreme measures for the crew's protection.Unexpectedly, Spock survives his aborted fever and must cope with the aftermath of his choices.
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Leonard "Bones" McCoy & Spock, Sarek & Spock
Series: Consequences [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1798576
Comments: 449
Kudos: 857
Collections: All Time Favourites





	1. Chapter 1

Captain Kirk rejects his request for shore-leave.

It's not surprising. Spock understands, and anticipated, his reasons. The _Enterprise's_ course cannot be altered without missing the deadline for their visit to Altair IV. The captain has a responsibility to his entire ship – and no knowledge, of course, of the true motivations behind Spock's request for leave.

In truth, Spock isn't sure he'd even be able to reach Vulcan before the Fever overtakes him entirely. There are no other Vulcans on this ship. He has checked their flight-path obsessively, thinking that perhaps the _Enterprise_ might at least drop him off at a nearby space-station, but he can find no place that would be able to help him. He needs to go to Vulcan. He cannot. But neither can he allow himself to enter the dangerous _plak tow_ on a ship of vulnerable, fragile humans.

Humans who trust him. Human who do not understand the dangers of _pon farr._

There is only one ethical option.

After his duty-shift Spock finds himself pacing through the halls. Entering the gym would be unwise, given that his condition may be irritated by heightened activity. But he is, already, unpleasantly restless. Spock _should_ eat, but the mere idea of food is nauseating.

He is a Vulcan, though. More Vulcan than he ever realized. He must maintain control as long as he can.

So Spock works through his shift like normal. He quells his shaking hands, ignores his irregular heart-beat, and carefully modulates his voice to sound even and precise. Captain Kirk doesn't seem to notice anything amiss, and Spock easily excuses himself at shift's end.

He forces himself to take a meal in the officers lounge, stomach clenching with each bite. Likely he will not manage to keep down any more food after this point. Spock eats slowly as the room fills with officers coming off shift. Uhura enters when he is almost finished, making a beeline for his table.

“Commander!” She throws herself into the seat across from Spock, a sly smile on her face. “You practically ran away at the end of shift... would you care to settle a bet?”

The room's artificial lights make her hair and skin glow. “Wagering is prohibited by Starfleet regulations,” says Spock automatically.

“Oh, only if we bet credits. And there are much more entertaining things to trade, Mr. Spock. Now, tell me the truth; were you running away to see a woman? A secret, romantic rendezvous...” she holds a hand to her heart.

This, the pseudo-flirting, is just a game they play. It's like McCoy's pointed barbs, or Mr. Scott's propensity to communicate through deliberately-obscure references to ancient technical manuals and famous disasters. She doesn't mean any of it, and Spock is just a safe target for Uhura's comments.

But he doesn't feel like bantering today. “I was not,” he says simply.

“My mistake,” Uhura smiles at him.

Spock has worked with the lieutenant for years without being distracted by her physical form. Yet now, he can barely look away. Her body is composed of smooth lines, deceptively soft – but he knows she is fit and strong, as Starfleet requires of all officers. Her hair shines a healthy black, and her eyes are dark and deep, almost Vulcan.

She smells slightly of some floral perfume, and underneath it exudes a mild sweat. Very, very faint is a muskier scent – the slight and natural odor of her sex, which would go entirely unnoticed by humans. The scent deepens when she exhales. Spock wonders what it would be like to hear her panting. He wonders what it would be like to hear her scream.

Uhura doesn't notice his preoccupation. “I've been thinking about visiting the gardens,” she says cheerily. “Would you care to join me, Mr. Spock?”

“No,” he says abruptly. “I must... file reports. If you will excuse me.”

Uhura nods. Her expression doesn't twitch; she doesn't seem offended or alarmed at his sudden announcement. But Spock leaves the room as fast as he dares. He wonders if any of the officers who glance at his passing can somehow sense his inappropriate thoughts. If this were a ship of Vulcans his condition would be obvious.

He returns to his own quarters with relief. Here there is only his own scent, with a few faint places where he's reminded of Captain Kirk. He is tempted to rest, to meditate, and hopefully dampen the aching pain between his legs. But there are more pressing matters.

His condition is escalating quickly. He has no option; he must make arrangements.

Spock begins by formulating a summary of all his experiments and duties in the Science Department, both official and not. Next he carefully lists future plans and creates an index of reference-files, as there is no way to rapidly coalesce his lifetime's work – despite the fact that this file is merely a revision, an update to a document he has started and set aside many times before in the course of dangerous missions.

Spock carefully makes a list of officers who would be able to adequately replace him, starting with Lieutenant Zera, who has always been an exceptional and rational officer. He creates a separate list for his future successor, which includes examples of past duty-rosters, several important notes about his personnel, and so forth.

Next comes the more difficult task of leaving instructions for the _Enterprise's_ next first-officer. Naturally, every first-officer is unique. Spock will not insult this unknown individual by presuming to micromanage. But he creates a number of lists similar to the ones provided for Lieutenant Zera; a document identifying the locations of relevant files, examples of notable reports, and so forth. There is actually less to say for this officer, and he finishes sooner than anticipated.

It is 2000 hours. Spock anticipates that he can manage at least 2 more days of duty without risk, but he is unable to sleep.

Spock chooses to meditate in the Observation Deck. His presence tends to make other officers feel obligated to leave, but under present circumstances he seems entitled to the indulgence.

He remains there until his next shift begins.

* * *

“Chess tonight?” Kirk offers at the end of the next day. “It's like we keep missing each other lately.”

Spock seriously considers the offer.

He would prefer to speak with Kirk soon – to reassure, to prepare him, even if he cannot make his intent clear – but there are other tasks he should attend. He has spent the past hours considering his final arrangements – including those which extend beyond the _Enterprise._

“I am otherwise occupied,” Spock says at last. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”

“I'm afraid _I'm_ busy tomorrow,” sighs Kirk. “I'm going over one of Scotty's proposals – we'll have to wait until the Altair mission is done. What a waste for a Starship.”

Spock clasps his hands behind his back, quietly accepting the captain's refusal. “You seem unusually preoccupied with this mission,” Spock notes, “Given its low-priority.”

“I'm occupied with it because Starfleet _doesn't_ consider it low-priority,” Kirk says. “Decades in this service, and I still can't understand some of these decisions. But you're right; I suppose there are worse assignments.” He shakes his head. They halt in the corridor, situated squarely between Spock and Kirk's doors. “Still. Two years in deep space, and they're sending us on milk-runs...”

Suddenly, Spock has misgivings. “Jim,” he interrupts. The captain sends him a surprised look; Spock rarely uses his given name. “There is a personal matter I would discuss with you.”

Kirk grimaces. “Of course, Spock – but I'm afraid it will have to wait. I'm expecting Admiral Komack to call in just a moment. Will it keep until after?”

Spock takes a step back. “Of course,” he says aloud.

His offer was a moment of madness, anyway. To speak – to tell Jim about the Fever, the most closely-guarded secret of Vulcan – would be both unforgivable and useless. Kirk would only suffer from the knowledge that he can do nothing to alleviate Spock's situation.

Better that Spock makes his arrangements quietly. No one needs to know why.

* * *

Spock tries to eat against at 1800 hours.

He hasn't seen Kirk or McCoy all day – Kirk's conference with Admiral Komack must have been important, because he's been running all over the ship checking reports and harassing Engineering. McCoy has no similar obligations, but he has found it necessary to send Spock a threatening message warning him to increase his caloric intake.

Spock _intends_ to comply, but he feels nauseous – and frustrated – at the mere prospect of food. His salad is utterly unappetizing, and Spock can't determine why until he catches the scent of grilled salmon at a nearby table and realizes that he _is_ hungry. Just not for plants.

At once Spock stands and discards his food. He almost makes it to his quarters when someone calls out his name.

“Mr. Spock!” Nurse Chapel cries. “Mr. Spock, one moment.”

Spock halts just as the doors to his room slide open. He glances back and finds the Nurse half-running behind him, carrying a small bowl that smells strongly of plomeek. His stomach roils. “If you must speak, do so.” He enters the room. Chapel follows without invitation. “I am occupied tonight.”

“Mr. Spock,” Chapel chides, ignoring the hint, “I saw you leave tonight without having a bite of dinner! I know Dr. McCoy has been on you about eating more.”

“My diet is perfectly adequate.”

“No, it isn't,” Chapel denies. Spock exhales, clenching his fists behind his back; why does this woman presume to know his body better than Spock? “Now, the kitchens whipped this up for you – real plomeek soup, from scratch. You need to eat all of it.”

“Do I,” says Spock flatly.

“Yes. And _maybe_ I won't tell Dr. McCoy that you've been skipping meals.”

Her tone is light, teasing. Spock yanks the bowl from her grip and finds his hands trembling with...

With rage, and something else. Nurse Chapel has a tendency to skirt regulations; her medical-blue shirt dips far lower than allowed.

“If I wanted your assistance I would ask for it,” Spock snaps. His voice sounds overly-loud; Chapel's eyes widen, and her mouth forms a small 'o'. “You will desist, and _leave._ ”

“Now, there's no need to be rude,” Chapel bursts.

Spock throws the bowl to the side; it hits the wall and spills open with a clatter. Chapel's entire body jerks in shock. She makes no protest when he grabs her arm and shoves her toward the door, just gasping breathlessly.

She almost falls when stumbling into the hall; Spock can hear footsteps halting, voices cutting away mid-conversation. He slaps the lock on his doors before forced to see anyone else.

The soup – which does, indeed, smell strongly of fresh plomeek – continues to dribble down the wall. Spock stares, breathing hard through his nose. His pulse races a frantic beat under his skin.

It is too late, Spock realizes. He already presents a danger to the crew. He cannot prevaricate for even one more day.

It is time.

The vast majority of his arrangements have been created; Spock runs through his mental list and decides the remainder are unimportant. He lights a stick of incense, then strides to the display of Vulcan weapons on the wall, picking one at random. A small knife – an assassin's knife, of the type not used by his ancestors in nearly 2400 years. Illogically he wonders what those ancestors would think, here and now, to see their line end with a half-breed who cannot sate his Fever.

Spock sits cross-legged and first nicks his femoral artery. The ancient knife cuts through his Starfleet-issue pants like butter. Next he raises the blade to his left wrist, and slices vertically. One final incision; he lifts the knife to his neck.

But the world grows dark. He drops the knife before completing the cut. Spock reaches for it again, but his grip slips. Green spots blotch the floor where his fingers explore. No matter, Spock thinks. The two cuts should be sufficient.

He takes a breath, welcoming the dizziness that finally, finally lets his Fever quiet. The flames abate; his blood runs slow and cold.

And then – right as he begins to reach true peace with his end – he hears a familiar sound.

The beep of a computer. A mechanical voice saying, _Override accepted._ The hiss of a door sliding open.

And nothing more.


	2. Chapter 2

“ _...did he.... full awareness...?”_

_“...not... scans show elevated levels...”_

_“...miss this... evaluations...”_

_“...impulse...temporary insanity...rumors...”_

_“...planned, Bones... Those files...fit for...wake up...?”_

_“...soon...don't know what we'll say....”_

* * *

Over the years Spock has become thoroughly acquainted with the experience of awakening in Sickbay, confused and unaware of how he arrived.

Never, however, has he experienced this level of disorientation.

Spock never expected to open his eyes again.

The bioscanner positioned above the bed hums quietly. Spock turns his head to the left, where he is startled to see Captain Kirk sitting asleep with one elbow propped on the bed.

When he turns to the other side he finds Dr. McCoy staring at him.

The doctor doesn't speak immediately. He stands up, scanner in hand, and examines the results. He takes out a penlight and shines it in Spock's eyes, even though this accomplishes absolutely nothing that could not be completed by other technology. He scrutinizes the screen on the wall, then shifts from foot to foot, clearly running out of avoidance tactics.

At last the doctor grits his teeth. “Why the hell did you _do_ it?” he asks.

Spock says nothing.

McCoy doesn't seem to expect an answer, because he suddenly starts whispering in a rush. “I've run the scans, Spock.” Kirk starts to stir, blinking awake. “You had some weird brain chemistry going on, elevated hormones... Definitely some sort of illness. I can accept that it made you more impulsive, more erratic. But you chose to do this - you planned it out. Jim found the instructions for your – for the next science officer.” McCoy voice is shaky, but rising in anger. “So what the hell were you thinking?” he wants to know.

“You speak in the past tense,” Spock says.

Kirk straightens.

“What?” McCoy demands. He's blinking too much, despite the scowls; his eyes are strangely red.

“You speak in the past tense. Has this unusual chemical imbalance subsided, Doctor?”

“ _That's_ what you're concerned about?!”

Spock merely raises an eyebrow.

After a moment, McCoy exhales, “ _Yes._ Your scans are normal now – though how you survived in the first place, I'm still not sure.”

Spock contemplates a number of responses, but he's not sure that McCoy would appreciate levity at the moment. He remains silent.

It makes sense. Though such tales are rare, it is said that a near-death experience can sometimes avert _pon farr._ There is no sense in a biological imperative that cannot be fulfilled – and someone suffering extensive blood-loss or injured organs cannot possibly hope to complete the mating.

But he never planned for this.

“Spock,” breathes Kirk. He sounds hoarse with the lingering effects of sleep. “Why would you – why _did_ you - “

The captain stops, uncharacteristically hesitant. Spock politely looks away, unwilling to dwell on the captain's shadow-rimmed eyes, his messed hair and uniform.

He considers asking the stardate, asking what time it is (his internal clock seems to have become confused). But words would break the heavy silence that has fallen. In a shocking show of tact, McCoy glances between them and steps back. He closes the door behind himself when he leaves.

Spock can't determine how he would _expect_ Kirk to react in such a situation. But he wouldn't predict the reality; this stretching silence, the waiting, and the intense stare – like somehow, if he looks hard enough, Kirk will be able to read Spock's motivations plain upon his face

Spock tries to clear his throat. A cough emerges instead.

This stirs Kirk into movement, but not speech. He retrieves a glass of water, nearly shoves it at Spock. Only after watching him sip at the glass for a minute does Kirk finally speak.

“When I was on Tarsus,” he says, and Spock stiffens, “There were times when I was separated from the other children... sometimes we had to send out scouts, or people to forage. Sometimes those children never made it back.” His voice is hard, distant. Kirk stands and starts to pace, as though the words themselves are forcing him into action. Spock has never heard him talk about Tarsus. “I volunteered to go, usually... We all took turns, but I was the only one to consistently volunteer.”

Unsurprising, to learn that Kirk was a leader even as a child. But Spock is unsure what point he means to make.

“Tom Leighton accused me of having a death-wish,” Kirk says quietly. He doesn't seem to be addressing Spock now, eyes looking around the room, looking at ghosts. “And maybe he wasn't entirely wrong. That's how some of the others died, Spock. I don't have proof, I don't have any evidence, but there were times I could just look at someone's face, and they'd be gone the next day, and I _knew..._ They gave up and decided a phaser-blast was quicker than starving. But that's not why I volunteered for those missions. What I never told Tom is that I was petrified every time I left. I think I could have accepted it if Kodos' men found us all together. But I didn't want to be one more vanishing kid, Spock. With no one out there, at the end – as though life never means anything at all. To anyone.”

Kirk turns. Meets his gaze. “I think that's my greatest fear,” he confesses. Something new has entered his tone – a touch of anger, the kind that comes from helplessness. “So I can't understand, Spock – what can make a person do that to themselves? What can make someone destroy their own life, and do it alone?”

Spock thinks of the fragile link tethering him to T'Pring. He can't feel it anymore; his near-death snapped the bond as though it never was. He has not been properly bonded with his father for decades; he was never able to form a connection with his mother, or even Sybok, who tried so hard to reach him.

“I regret to confirm your fears, Sir,” Spock must answer. “But in the end we are always alone.”

“I don't accept that,” Kirk says. Which is typical. “And I don't think you do either. You wanted to go to Vulcan – why?”

Spock does, sincerely, want to tell him. His reasons were logical. If he could explain, then surely Kirk might understand. But it is Taboo to even mention the Fever to off-worlders – except for those involved in it.

And so he gives a half-truth, the only answer that might suffice.

“There are mind-healers on Vulcan,” he says at last.

This is not, in fact, untrue - even if it is misleading. If T'Pring had rejected him a professional healer _would_ have arranged to help him through the Fever.

But one glance reveals an error; his answer leaves Kirk stricken. This wasn't his intent. For just a moment Spock imagines explaining the truth, all of it, if only to wipe away that expression of self-recrimination.

He does not.

When Kirk speaks again his words are raw and halting. “If I'd known, Spock... I'm sorry.”

“You are not to be blamed, Captain.”

But Kirk doesn't seem to hear him. “We're going to make this right,” he says, and stands, and abruptly flees the room.

Spock stares after him.

He doesn't know what to make of Kirk's visit. It seems strange that he has been left, given the understandable assumptions that will be made about his mental state. Even in this nearly-empty room Spock has the means to complete what he started. The monitor above the biobed could easily be pulled apart. Spock estimates he could electrocute himself within one minute, twenty-eight seconds. He could bite through his own wrists. Tear away one of the metal strips attached to the bed and stab himself.

Spock realizes he is tapping his fingers against one of those strips. He stops.

The _pon farr_ has ended. By every interpretation of Vulcan philosophy, there is no longer a logical motive for suicide. So he's not going to do any of those things.

And McCoy reappears just a minute later, so it's probably good that Spock never moved.

It seems as though McCoy is going to copy Kirk's weighted silence, but then the man hitches a huge sigh.

Says, “Jim found you, you know.”

Spocks flinches. McCoy speaks with his face turned to the wall, oddly sober. “He heard about that scene with Chapel, and when you didn't answer the door he let himself inside... found you covered in blood, a knife in your hand. It was pretty obvious what happened, but he had security sweep the place anyway, after. I don't think he wanted to believe it.”

Spock isn't sure how to reply. There seems to be nothing useful he can say.

“Why did you do it?” McCoy asks again. “Suicide isn't logical. And I know enough about Vulcans to know that's your people's stance, too.”

“On the contrary,” says Spock, staring at the ceiling so he doesn't have to look at McCoy, “Under some circumstances, suicide is quite logical. If, for example, a person is afflicted with chronic pain, past the point of endurance... if they have committed serious acts, detrimental to society, to the point that their continued existence may be viewed as a public burden... or if they are damaged in mind, incapable of controlling themselves... it is more logical to meet death on an individual's own terms, in relative cognizance, rather than experience a life of suffering.”

McCoy does not argue as Spock might have expected. A long silence stretches between them. “Spock,” says the doctor at last. His voice is hushed, almost inaudible against the quiet hum of electronics in the ward. “I know we've had our differences, but if I've ever made you feel... I mean...”

Typical human arrogance, Spock thinks, that McCoy assumes he is somehow at fault for this situation. “Your reaction is unwarranted. It was never my intention to disturb you, Doctor.”

“Then what did you think would happen?” McCoy snaps. “'Disturb' us – I had to kick out Jim the first night because he was all but crying over your body. Scared the hell out of my nurses. And you're here, acting like no one should care - “

McCoy stops. Spock realizes that his own arms are folded, crossed defensively over his abdomen. He doesn't remember doing that, but it is very cold in this room.

“You don't even realize it, do you?” McCoy asks quietly. “How much people care.”

This time, though, he doesn't seem angry.

Just tired.

* * *

This is what Spock learns when he accesses the computer: his message reached Vulcan. His father is attempting to contact him.

Nurse Chapel looks a little reproachful when he makes his request for privacy. She accepted his apology for his violent behavior three days ago with good grace, but vacillates between kindness and anger. Spock can never discern what reaction he will receive, or why.

“I'm _sure_ your family will be eager to talk to you,” she says as she exits. It sounds like a threat.

The video-call is accepted. The screen shows Sarek alone in his office, stiff and pale against the backdrop of a tapestry that Spock recognizes from the Vulcan embassy. Working, then. Sarek looks tired, his hair unkempt; perhaps he has been holding late hours.

“I see you are alive,” says Sarek without preamble.

“I am currently in the _Enterprise's_ sickbay,” Spock explains briefly.

Sarek inclines his head. “And shall I make arrangements?”

Spock is unsure whether he means _arrangements for your pon farr_ or _arrangements for your funeral._ “The danger is passed.”

“I see.”

Spock and Sarek look at each other for a moment, both waiting. Spock has never known what to say to his father. And this, now, is the first conversation they've held in 18 years.

“My mother,” Spock begins.

“I never informed her of your call,” says Sarek flatly. “She would only be injured by your choice. As there was no lasting harm, she does not need to know.”

Logical. But probably not the type of logic his mother would appreciate.

“However,” Sarek says, “I would seriously recommend that you return to Vulcan.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “The Fever has passed.”

“It may return. Furthermore, T'Pring has decided to divorce you; she states that she does not want to wait an additional seven years for marriage. It is necessary to find you a new bondmate.” Unfortunate, but not surprising. “This will be especially difficult if we cannot ascertain your mental well-being.”

Spock tilts his head. “My mind is sound. You must understand my reasons for acting.”

“I do not.”

It is uncomfortable to discuss his Time so bluntly, but Spock persists. “Suicide to prevent _plak tow_ is hardly unknown.”

“Of course. Such violence would have been dangerous to your crew. However, I have seen your physician's scans and reports, which he transmitted to a number of doctors in ShiKahr. Your condition was not dire.”

“Yet it would inevitably have escalated.”

“You had time to return to Vulcan.”

“My request was refused.”

“You could have told them it was a medical emergency,” Sarek continues calmly. Every argument he makes is delivered this way – passionless, but cutting. “Even without explanation, their scans would have verified your claim.”

“It is possible that I would not have reached Vulcan in time.”

“Possible,” echoes Sarek. His eyes have always had a piercing quality which, as a child, sometimes made Spock avoid his line of sight. Fixed, intense – as though he can see someone's intentions if he glares hard enough. “Though the _Enterprise_ was not on any urgent mission. Saving even a single life would have been more important than allowing your ship to continue its course. So why did you not even try?”

\- And to this, Spock has no answer.

* * *

Ultimately, there are no repercussions.

Sarek must have intervened. A subcommittee of the Vulcan Council of Health demands that Spock's medical record be cleared – that his 'suicide' be deemed a case of temporary, medically-induced insanity. It isn't _completely_ unsupported by McCoy's scans, so under pressure Starfleet caves at once. The order comes straight from Starfleet's Chief Surgeon.

McCoy calls bullshit.

“Your hormones were elevated and your brain-patterns were completely out of whack,” the doctor says as Kirk hovers grimly in the background. “Enough to impair your judgment, sure. I'll buy that. But not enough to make you act completely out of character.”

“That is your opinion, doctor. I am quite ready to return to work.”

“ _Nothing_ about the past few days has convinced me of that,” McCoy warns. “Damnit, Spock – I don't want to ship you to some dusty corner of the galaxy, but you can't stay on this ship if you're a danger to yourself! You _know_ that, and you also can't pretend that everything is fine and dandy just because the Vulcans doesn't want to admit that their people can be driven to suicide!”

Spock flinches at the word.

Finally Kirk speaks. “Enough, Bones. I don't like it, but we have our orders.” When McCoy looks ready to rebel, he continues. “However, I think it's reasonable to say that you want to keep Spock under observation for future changes.”

“Psychiatric observation?” McCoy asks. “I'm no Vulcan mind-healer, Jim. I can talk to him, sure, for all the good it will do...”

“It's better than nothing,” says Kirk firmly. He and McCoy eye each other, communicating silently. Some conclusion must be reached, because finally the doctor nods.

He still doesn't look happy.

“When are you discharging him?” Kirk asks.

“Tomorrow, I suppose. I'll approve him for duty in... three days.”

“After the Altair mission? Alright.” Kirk turns. “Spock, meet me in my quarters tomorrow after Alpha Shift. I want to talk more, privately.”

Spock nods. Kirk seems to consider this the end of the conversation; face stony, he turns on heel and leaves them alone.

* * *

It is always a little discomfiting, Sickbay. Spock is - by both nature and habit - a man inclined to spend every minute productively. He works, he perfects his music and language skills, reads about the latest scientific advancements... Being confined to Sickbay grinds him to a halt. It's gives him with an uncomfortable, almost guilty sense of neglecting other duties.

But McCoy is determined to fuss over him in the grimmest manner possible. He is ordered to do nothing, nothing at all, until roughly an hour before Alpha-Shift is scheduled to end. Then McCoy closes the door to his private room, telling the computer to mute itself and turning off all recording devices. This is a privilege only allowed to select officers, in very specific circumstances. It could also be arranged from McCoy's office; the spectacle would seem to be for Spock's benefit.

These details so arranged, McCoy sits across from Spock's biobed and asks him to go through his thought-process before he injured himself.

“There is is no benefit in explaining,” Spock informs him. “And your concern is illogical. You already observed, Doctor, that I was ill when I made that error. Analyzing my motivations is useless because I was not thinking clearly. I assure you the event will not be repeated.”

In response, McCoy pull out a datapadd. Flicks it on. “'In the event that Lieutenant Zera is unable to fulfill these duties,” he reads aloud, “Lieutenant Olson would serve as second choice. Other candidates would include Lieutenant-Commander Denaris, currently stationed on the _Reliant;_ Lieutenant Mara of the _Sturgeon;_ or Lieutenant-Commander Davis, on Starbase twelve...' This seems pretty prepared to me, Spock.”

“Not in the sense you believe.”

“No? You're saying this isn't the work of – what, weeks?”

“It is not. Most of the files were already compiled; I regularly update those instructions before any dangerous mission.”

McCoy slowly sets down the padd. “Any dangerous mission.” His voice is very flat. “You prepare for your death before _every mission_.”

Spock does not believe clarification would be helpful at this juncture. “Yes.”

“...Okay. Right. Let's talk about that, then. Why do you think that sort of planning is necessary?”

“I occupy two important positions on the _Enterprise._ It would be irresponsible to leave my successor unprepared; the entire ship's efficiency would be affected.”

“Alright. Sure. But _every mission?_ You could hit the bullet-points and call it good.”

“Detailed instructions are always more beneficial.”

“But that level of detail just isn't necessary. People get field-promotions every day, and adapt just fine. It's not healthy to think about your own mortality that much.”

“To be injured during duty is a risk every Starfleet officer assumes when they join the service, Doctor.”

“Yes, Spock! We accept the risk! We don't _anticipate_ it! God, you're acting like this was just a – a calculation, like your _life_ is part of an equation. Even on Vulcan... can you tell me people would accept this sort of thing?”

Spock isn't sure what compels him to say, “That is hardly relevant. Many Vulcans have argued that I should not have been born at all, and that my existence signifies a scientific aberration."

\- And the meeting goes downhill from there.

* * *

By the time Spock leaves, Doctor McCoy looks world-weary and pained. This is all a misunderstanding, of course. But the way forward is unclear.

Spock cannot break centuries of Vulcan taboo by explaining himself properly. Even if he did, he suspects neither McCoy nor Kirk would properly understand the dangers of _pon far._

So there is only this, then: to continue his duties, and hope that regular activity and time will help put these events in the past.

It's not as though Spock is actually a danger to himself. Everything will return to normal soon enough.


	3. Chapter 3

“I've forwarded you our activity summaries,” says Lieutenant Zera, speaking intently to some point above Spock's head. “You may be particularly interested in Mr. Chekov's work, Sir, in Lab 5. I think he must have made a breakthrough of some sort with the time-travel equations; he's been running simulations for days.”

“Very good,” says Spock, and accepts the datapadd from her hands. Nearby crewmen scuttle away, unusually silent as Spock proceeds to lab 5.

The quiet is unnerving. It is Spock's experience that humans only work with such intense, busy dedication when they are either strongly motivated or working hard to distract themselves. For humans, solemn work does not indicate efficiency; it is more often a sign of stress, and counterintuitively can cause productivity to diminish.

But Spock chooses not to make any inquiries of Lieutenant Zera; he cannot imagine that the ensuing conversation would satisfy anyone.

He pauses at entrance to science lab 5. Mr. Chekov is absorbed in his work, and doesn't notice Spock's approach. There are a number of odd instruments at his side, including five blocks of wood, several apparently random biological samples, a microscope, a rod of metal set over a small burner, and a soldering laser. Spock cannot imagine how these instruments are related to time-travel experiments.

The ensign himself is half-slumped over his desk, frowning heavily. He picks up the soldering instrument and, to Spock's bemusement, carefully burns a scorch-mark into one of the biological slides before moving to examine it under the microscope. Spock eyes the tool. It would have been far more efficient, he thinks, if he'd killed himself with such an instrument instead. One neat shot through the roof of his mouth would certainly have prevented the upcoming days of awkward conversations.

Spock steps forward. “Ensign Chekov. What progress have you made?”

Chekov startles. The reaction seems dramatic; he drops his padd and scrambles to pick it up, proceeding to throw the instrument upon his table as though somehow divesting himself of unpleasant evidence.

“Commander. Erm. Nothing – I mean, of course I have results – ah, but. Nothing. Important.”

“I see. Lieutenant Zera informs me that you have made some important steps forward in your recent project - “

“No,” Chekov mumbles. “No breakthrough. I just... felt like, ah, working a lot this week. Experimenting. Good distraction.”

The ensign winces like he didn't mean to say that. Spock tilts his head.

A quiet _beep_ from the wall indicates that one of the ensign's pre-arranged alerts has been triggered. Chekov looks up, blinks. “Oh – is it that late already?”

The signal is obviously intended to warn him about the start of Alpha-Shift. “How long have you been working?” asks Spock, suspicious.

Chekov stutters something indecipherable. Spock resolves to keep an eye on him, but chooses to say nothing at the moment. He is certainly well-acquainted with the tendency to become lost in research.

“Are you capable of working Alpha Shift?” Spock asks. Both he and Ensign Chekov are scheduled for bridge duty in ten minutes.

Chekov flushes. “Yes, of course,” he says, and rapidly starts to clear his station.

They pace together down the hallway, skirting past a sparking wall-panel surrounding by three quarreling engineers. The argument becomes sheepishly quiet as Spock passes, but after he walks past he hears angry imprecations rising behind.

“No way,” says someone as they approach the deck's turbolift entrance. Ensign Levesky's muffled tones drift down from the nearby jefferies tube. The ensign's voice is only a low whisper, but not quiet enough to escape Vulcan ears – or human ones, judging by Chekov's quick glance. “They'd never keep him on duty...”

“Nurse Mara swears all his injuries were self-inflicted...”

Spock sweeps by and presses a button to summon the lift, arching one eyebrow. He notes the name. Breaching medical confidentiality is a serious offense.

“I don't know,” answers the voice of Crewman Barret. Next to Spock Chekov stands at perfect parade-rest, eyes straight ahead. “Maybe it's a Vulcan thing?”

“A _Vulcan thing?_ ”

“Well, like, religion? Or a ritual?”

“Vulcans don't have rituals.”

“Have you ever _met_ a fucking Vulcan?”

“Well I guess it makes more sense than thinking that Commander Spock tried to - “

Ensign Levesky lowers himself from the jefferies tube at this exact moment. Upon catching sight of the first officer he freezes with his feet still dangling over the ground. Mr. Barret almost steps on his head.

“Hey, what the fuck,” complains Barret, peering down. He stumbles and clutches at the ladder as he meets Spock's eyes. “Shit.”

“Language, crewmen,” says Spock automatically. Barret reddens.

The turbolift opens. Ignoring Levesky's stuttered apologies, Spock steps neatly inside.

Chekov shuffles from foot to foot beside him at the lift rises toward the bridge. He blurts, “Commander,” then stops.

Spock pauses. He is reluctant to ask Mr. Chekov what he wants, but the ensign seems unnerved by his silence anyway. “Mr. Spock,” Chekov tries again. “I am wanting to say, it is an honor working with you.”

This isn't what Spock expected. Chekov seems mortified with himself already, so he only nods.

Mercifully, the door opens.

Chekov bolts for his seat as though there's been a red-alert. Spock follows suit more slowly.

He's a bit glad that Mr. Chekov didn't leave him a chance to respond.

* * *

After one of the more uncomfortable shifts of his career, Spock intends to abscond to his quarters to meditate. He finds himself waylaid halfway there by Lieutenant Sulu, who wants to show Spock a new plant cross-breed in his quarters. Not one of the ship's assigned experiments – just a personal hobby.

Spock declines. “Thank you, Lieutenant, but perhaps another time.”

Sulu presses his lips together, hurrying to meet Spock's pace in the hall. “I'd really prefer to show you now,” he insists. “Loxanne,” (Mr. Sulu has a habit of naming his plants) “has been behaving really strangely compared to either of her parent-species. I think she tried to eat my arm yesterday.”

Only a human, Spock thinks, could sound so excited at the prospect of being devoured by a plant.

And now he's calculating the likelihood that Sulu's houseplant will develop mobility and hold the ship hostage. Spock sighs. “Very well, Mr. Sulu.”

Visibly pleased, Sulu leads the way to his quarters. Oddly, though, he doesn't seem eager to point out “Loxanne” once they arrive – instead he insists on fixing Spock a cup of tea, which is odd because three weeks ago Spock overheard Sulu mention that he hates tea. Then of course he must share a few lemon-tarts, and Spock judges it would be rude to refuse. As they eat politely – Spock grateful that Sulu thought to provide a fork – the lieutenant informs him that the tarts are his grandmother's recipe, actually, it's really very kind of the chef to let him borrow the kitchen occasionally...

At last, Sulu actually shows him Loxanne. “Getting more vicious every day,” he boasts, like a proud parent. The plant he gestures at seems innocuously small, and almost disappointing after all Sulu's warning; a tiny, shriveled thing in the center of a huge pot, tightly wrapped by layers and layers of folded mud-green leaves.

The plant doesn't even twitch. “It does not seem active,” Spock notes, reaching out to prod open a leaf.

Sulu shoves his arm away an instant before the plant snaps open. From each bristling leaf hundreds of silvery needles pierce the air, flailing wildly in search of prey. Spock arches an eyebrow. The space his hand once occupied is surrounded by a deadly array of long thorns.

“That was dangerous,” says Sulu quietly. He's still gripping Spock's wrist, very pale.

“Of course I did not anticipate its reaction,” Spock explains. Sulu slants him a sideways look and says nothing.

It occurs to Spock that if he ever finds another occasion to attempt suicide, it would be more logical to arrange an accident. It would probably create less distress for Jim – and the ship certainly provides a plethora of natural opportunities.

Sulu says that maybe he should reconsider the safety precautions in his quarters; Spock agrees. The lieutenant requests his presence in two days to help plan the necessary modifications. It is only logical to consent, though he is not sure why this makes Sulu beam, or why the lieutenant finds it necessary to send him away with another half-dozen lemon tarts.

* * *

Spock _almost_ manages to reach the third level of meditation before his door buzzes.

He considers not answering. The door buzzes again. Spock contemplates the likelihood that Jim is trying to contact him, perhaps growing increasingly alarmed by Spock's silence. Sighing, he unfolds himself and answers the door.

It is not, in fact, Captain Kirk.

Dr. McCoy shoulders his way past Spock without a word of greeting. Spock allows the door to slide shut and quirks an eyebrow. Inside the heated air of his quarters McCoy pauses, turning on heel to assess the room. The doctor rarely meets him here.

“Was there something you required?” Spock prompts, pointedly.

“Thought you could use some company,” McCoy declares, at if they ever socialize without either work or other people to intercede.

Spock waits. Further explanation does not seem forthcoming.

“Well?” McCoy asks. “Don't they have manners on that planet of yours?”

To convey what he thinks of this Spock slowly and dramatically retrieves a pitcher of tooth-achingly sweet tea from the small food-synthesizer in his quarters. McCoy plops himself onto a chair and assesses the collection of antique Vulcan weaponry adorning the wall.

One of the knives is conspicuously absent – only a pale indent left in the velvet-red wall fixture. Spock had not dared ask what became of it, after.

“Lots of weapons for a pacifist,” McCoy drawls.

“You are well aware of the fact that my people were not always so peaceful.”

“Oh, sure,” McCoy agrees. “Very passionate, those old Vulcans. Hatred, love, heartbreak – it's said they felt everything intensely.”

This feels like a trap. “Yes.”

“Right. And how did your barbaric ancestors feel about suicide, Spock?”

The segue, inelegant as it is, cannot be unexpected. Spock clasps his hands behind his back. “They considered it an act of self-murder, and investigated accordingly. Anyone proven to have contributed to the victim's motivations could, with sufficient evidence, be found guilty of conspiracy to kill. Some suicides occurred precisely with the intent of inconveniencing enemies.”

McCoy appears briefly distracted by this, but shakes his head. “But how did they _feel_ about it, Spock? You can't convince me that those Pre-Reform Vulcans didn't have an emotional reaction to the deaths of their friends and family.”

“Based upon writings of the era,, the most common response would be anger.”

“Anger,” McCoy echoes. “...Yeah, alright, I can buy that. Anger can be just another way of expressing grief.”

Spock does not care. “I am not in need of your 'armchair psychology,' Doctor. For what purpose have you come here?”

“What, we're friends, aren't we? I can't come on a friendly visit just to see you?”

“You have never done so before,” Spock points out.

“Yes I - “ McCoy pauses. Frowns. Raising his eyes to the ceiling, he mutters, “Good god. I haven't, have I?”

McCoy appears strangely distressed by this revelation.

“I ask you again, Doctor; was there something you needed?”

“...No. I'll, uh, get out of your hair now, Spock. Sorry.”

A pause. Dr. McCoy does not move. Before Spock can decide how to prod the man out, McCoy bursts, “We _should_ talk. You're, I mean – are you going to make me do all the emoting here, Spock?”

Spock blinks.

“You're my friend,” McCoy snaps. “And to humans, that means something.”

There is a part of Spock that should say, _It means something to me as well._ But the words will not come.

“All I really wanted to say,” McCoy tells him, “is that you can talk to me, about anything, if you want. And I'll even try not to mock Vulcans, much.”

“That,” Spock manages, “Would truly constitute a 'miracle,' Doctor.”

McCoy leaves, but he finds no peace in his meditations that night.

* * *

Over the next few days Spock notes a definite decrease of efficiency among the crew; he cannot account for it. The Altair mission concludes with no important disruptions; Captain Kirk grumbles about a few rude politicians, but the ship is soon assigned a peaceful survey-mission on an unexplored world. Such missions often include more excitement than expected, but initial scans seem promising. It is precisely the sort of work that Spock most enjoys.

And in the meantime, there are others duties to attend.

On a ship the size of the _Enterprise,_ there are engineers who can spend their entire lives specializing in a single type of machinery – coolant systems, weapons arrays, the computer databanks. Lieutenant-Commander Scott's job as Chief Engineer necessitates that he know the entire ship – and he does, at a level even Spock can't match.

But in their line of work every officer is required to have basic engineering skills, and Spock's expertise with computers make him more than normally competent. Still, he wonders how he's found himself crawling the lower-deck jeffrey tubes behind Mr. Scott, and why Scotty was so insistent that no one else could assist his work today.

Mr. Scott, though it would surprise some people, is usually not prone to idle chatter when he works. His sentences can be layered in a perplexing array of metaphors, odd endearments, and unfamiliar references, but despite the man's easy friendliness he takes his work very seriously. A minor comment here or there is permissible; outright distraction is almost an affront to his duty, and Scotty values nothing more than his engines.

So Spock is surprised to find himself a captive audience today. Despite the fact that crawling one-by-one through a Jeffries' tube would generally deter conversation, stories drift back to him in an absent, rambling brogue. Each one is a wistful reflection on Scotty's childhood home in Edinburgh.

Fortunately, this mumbling monologue is interrupted. Spock awkwardly clings to the ladder one-handed while fishing out his communicator; he brought it along as a precaution, but didn't actually expect to be called. “Spock here.”

_“Commander, your presence is requested in science lab 9. Apparently there's been a fight.”_

“Acknowledged – I am heading there now.”

Oddly, Scotty seems just as relieved as he is.

Science lab 9 is one of the quieter areas of the ship. It is generally used by those sifting through data and devoting themselves to the necessary, but sometimes dull, work of star-charting. Those scientists most typically assigned to the lab are calm, collected individuals. Lieutenant Exley, a soft-spoken woman who will likely never be promoted again if she continues to resist socializing with her crewmates; Ensign Laless, from the slow and sober Grazerite species so noted for their bovine placidity; and the dreamy Sara Coral, who can pass entire shifts in an absent-minded haze. Other science officers might filter in and out of the lab, but still, Spock finds it hard to envisage the circumstances that could instigate a fight.

So it makes sense that others were involved.

Four security officers are standing guard when he arrives – one pair keeping away rubber-neckers, and two more standing between the sullen groups standing on either end of the lab. Aside from the usual scientists, three vaguely-familiar crewman sulk across the room, cradling bruised cheeks and bent fingers. Serious damage, Spock notes; less a 'fight,' and more of an outright brawl. It takes him a moment longer to recognize the three as recent arrivals from Starbase seven.

Nearer to Spock, Exley, Coral, and Laless glare at this group. Lieutenant Exley shuffles her feet when she notices Spock's entrance; by contrast, her subordinates appear unrepentant.

He directs his words to Exley. “Lieutenant. Report.”

“Um,” says Lieutenant Exley She looks helplessly to Laless, as though for support, although the Grazerite blinks back at her. “Those three were, ah, saying some things? And I punched them.”

“You punched them,” Spock repeats slowly.

“Well, more specifically I punched crewman Michaels, Sir. Then Mr. Smith went at me, and Laless punched _him,_ and after that it's all a bit confusing.”

Spock assesses them. Lieutenant Exley is the last woman he would expect to possess violent tendencies; even now she blushes under his regard, more embarrassed than angry. “Do you concur with this summary?” He prompts the others. They both do.

So Spock moves on to the enlisted men.

To his surprise, they also agree with Lieutenant Exley's statement. Spock would be more willing to accept this if any of the three would look him in the eye.

“Mr. Michaels,” Spock singles out one of the men at random. “What _precisely_ did you say that so offended Lieutenant Exley?”

Michaels reddens. He glances around the room so long that Spock wonders, with exasperation, if he needs to hold another interdepartmental meeting about _efficiency_ and how to _not_ waste time with nonverbal gestures, euphemisms, and colorful turns of speech.

Finally, the man refuses to explain.

“At least, I won't tell you,” he says. “I'll talk to Captain Kirk, if you want, or security... but I'm not telling you.

Spock raises an eyebrow, staring down Michaels until the man is cringing against the wall. But however uncomfortable they look, none of the enlisted men seem inclined to budge.

It is not, of course, an unprecedented request. Spock occasionally encounters officers reluctant to discuss emotional disputes in front of him due to some misplaced self-consciousness. “Your silence will not reflect well on you, should you be brought up on charges,” he points out. Michaels flinches, but repeats his request to see Captain Kirk.

Spock relents. He orders the security detail to separate the groups in two separate briefing rooms. As the scientists file outside, Lieutenant Exley hisses to Michaels, “Do you _seriously_ think the Captain is going to be more sympathetic?”

He never does learn what the fight was about; but he does know that Kirk places the enlisted men on Sanitation detail for three months, and puts reprimands in their files. His scientists, for whatever reason, receive only a warning and two weeks limited privileges.

_

* * *

Later that evening Spock sits in the rec room listening to Uhura sing a pleasantly surprising array of Vulcan songs. Her accent is flawless, and under other circumstances he might ask about her reasons for the spontaneous performance – he's fairly certain she's been focusing on the Orion languages lately. But right now his attention is caught by the padd in his hands.

It contains the report of his recent stay in Sickbay. With McCoy unable to 'prove' anything dangerous about Spock's psychological state, Starfleet has firmly recorded their agreement that his suicide attempt resulted from lowered inhibitions caused by an unknown illness. Their recommendation asserts that he is completely healthy and sound of mind, but should continue to be monitored for the next several weeks for any signs of suicidal ideation.

Uhura finishes her ballad, sliding immediately into a rousing Pre-Reform march exulting the warrior clan of Yelar. A few people intermittently applaud the most riotous parts.

Spock reads the report again. Naturally he knows the definition of suicidal ideation. It occurs when someone fantasizes about death, romanticizes it. When death and dying consume a being's thoughts, and they yearn for an end.

Spock looks over to where an Ensign removes a tray from the food-synthesizer. He wonders how long it would take to program the machines to create poison. Thinking of the molecular synthesizers also brings to mind transporters. It would be so easy to fabricate a transporter accident. Disappearing forever, disintegrating into a billion atoms and scattered through nearby space, at peace with the universe. Nothing of himself remaining.

Spock looks back down to the report. Reads, _on the lookout for signs of suicidal ideation._

Across the room, Uhura moves onto a slow lament for the passing of ShiKahr's late high-priestess. Spock stands up and walks out.


	4. Chapter 4

Spock has not meditated properly for almost a month.

Not since his stay in Sickbay where McCoy enforced his periods of rest. Where he hovered, watching like a suspicious sentinel until Spock acquiesced to spending hours and hours kneeling, reordering his mind, fixing himself.

Trying to fix himself.

He feels stretched and thin and has no explanation. His work progresses adequately, but every day Jim touches his shoulder to ask, “How's your day been, Mr. Spock?” and his knees buckle for a moment.

Illogical.

He says he is adequate. That is the most he can ever manage.

Jim – like everyone else lately – is annoyingly solicitous. As they take their seats in the briefing room – sitting across from Lieutenant Zera, Lieutenant Sulu, and Ensign Lee from security – he reaches out to squeeze Spock's arm without apparent purpose.

Spock feels an odd pain in his chest. He can determine no discernible cause. This, too, is illogical.

Spock himself leads the briefing. Their current mission will be a simple, routine survey of a Class-M planet. Utterly safe. The landing party plans to take their samples from 12 pre-determined spots over the course of five days.

This briefing is little more than a formality; everyone here is well-versed in the procedures. But during the discussion Spock notes that Captain Kirk never smiles and rarely contributes a comment. That is unusual; Kirk generally leaps at any chance to explore a new world, and the planet below seems perfectly idyllic.

Near the end of the briefing he asks if Kirk has any concerns.

The captain levels him with a long, hard look. “None at all,” he says, yet Spock cannot help but think he's missing something.

* * *

Down on Theta Aranis III the landing party immediately breaks apart to perform a sweep of the area. Only after each group calls in to confirm their safety do they begin collecting samples.

Spock himself begins collecting small biological specimens. Somewhere Sulu will be harvesting plant matter, and Captain Kirk has volunteered to gather rock, soil, and water on behalf of their ill geologist Lieutenant Aben. They have other geologists, of course; Spock strongly suspects that Captain Kirk just wanted an excuse to dig in the dirt.

Oddly, Kirk chooses to makes his collections next to the place where Spock is carefully scanning a copse of trees for insects and small fauna.

“It would be best if you selected from a range of different areas,” he reminds Kirk, who is perfectly familiar with landing-party protocol.

“You know,” says Kirk, “Collecting native animal-life is probably the most dangerous role in a scientific survey.”

Spock – surprised by this pronouncement while lifting a lizard the size of his fingernail from its hiding spot on a branch - glances up doubtfully. “Statistically speaking, Ensign Lee has the most dangerous role, followed closely by the botanist.”

It is truly amazing how many plants exist that are hostile to humanoid life.

“...Of course,” says Kirk, frowning deeply at the little lizard crawling around Spock's palm. Tiny red feet struggle to scale his index-finger. “You're right,” the captain adds abruptly, and disappears into the foliage on their left.

A bit baffled, Spock watches for signs of a return. Then he places the little lizard into a ventilated specimen-kit and continues.

Over the next hour Spock retrieves a number of insects, two rodents, three mysterious eggs hidden among the undergrowth, and a few fish that have managed to make their homes in puddles of water spotted along the ground. Spock suspects they may be amphibious.

At first Spock sees and dismisses the small feline stalking behind him. Once it pounces harmlessly at his heels, quickly skittering away when he turns. At this stage of study only smaller animal specimens tend to be collected. Spock would have continued to ignore it, except as the creature runs its fur ripples to match the shade of the surrounding trees.

This, of course, makes the animal far more interesting. Mammals with such extreme camouflage are rare, and Spock quickly sets aside his previous samples, deliberately lowering his breathing and walking swiftly along the densely-carpeted forest.

The cat seems to view this as a game. It watches Spock approach for a minute, then darts toward him in a sudden lunge. Before they can meet it spins away, running in wild leaps before coming to a halt on a clear patch of ground outside the boundary of trees.

This pattern repeats several times, until the cat turns and nearly runs over the edge of a cliff. It scrambles to a halt and Spock uses the opportunity to grab it by the abdomen.

The cat fights for only a moment before Spock reaches out telepathically. Many animals are easily rendered complacent with a simple mind-touch. Coaxing the animal to trust him soon renders it a happy, boneless mess purring in his arms. The cats' fur lightens to a bright blue, like his shirt; only its amber eyes gleam independent of this change, though its sides gain an odd golden sheen as it strives to mirror the command-stripes on Spock's wrist.

Spock is prepared to take his prize and go - but as he turns he notices something odd. Carefully checking the stability of the ground, he stands with the tips of his boots protruding over the cliff's edge and peers down.

The cliff-side is dotted by a number of phosphorescent plants glowing in a shimmering array of colors. Leaves branch out horizontally, ignoring gravity. Spock wonders if the plants are, perhaps, part of a deeper underground system of organisms revealed accidentally by the bared rock.

Either way, an interesting find. He stands studying the growth-patterns, noticing several plants slowly shifting from poisonous-blue to blood-green, scarlet to yellow. Perhaps the cats' form of camouflage is common on this world?

These musings are interrupted by a shout of his name - “Spock!”

Spock blinks and turns around. The entire landing party is clustered a few dozen yards away, with Jim approaching. Hefting the purring cat – it threatens to slide from his grip like liquid, clearly well-reconciled to Spock – he walks toward the party. Kirk freezes. His face is lit with confusion. Spock glances down at the feline but can discover nothing to warrant this expression. “Are you through collecting samples, Sir?”

“I – yes. What were you doing over - ?”

“There is a fascinating community of plants in the cliffside,” Spock informs him. “Mr. Sulu, I would recommend that you collect samples from further below; they may be difficult to reach.”

“Yes, Sir,” says Sulu. He vanishes with admirable eagerness in the direction of Spock's gesture; Ensign Lee and Lieutenant Zera hasten to follow.

Kirk's face flushes red. With pursed lips, he asks, “Is that a cat?”

“Also an interesting creature,” Spock agrees.

Kirk looks disbelieving. But they collect the other officers, and do, in fact, descend to the base of the nearby cliff. Most of the plants are too high for conventional collection; they spread out to search for a likely sample.

Spock keeps relatively close to Kirk, because the captain decides to practice his mountaineering skills and sets to scaling the cliff without equipment. It is while pacing below, watching him, that Spock becomes cognizant of a red shape shimmering near his feet. He looks down and finds plants of every color flickering into view.

In fact, he is surrounded by the camouflaged plants. They suddenly burst into movement all around him, leaves stretching and flaring. Curious. In his arms the native cat begins to squirm.

A plant near his foot shivers. Softly, as though blown by a gentle wind, it extends one delicate leaf to wrap around his ankle.

The cat screams, and the world disappears in a blaze of fire.

* * *

“First degree burns,” McCoy tells him after Spock wakes. “And you're lucky you still _have_ that leg. Can you feel this?”

Gently, the doctor prods at the raw, green-tinted slash of skin under Spock's knee. He grits his teeth; only years of discipline allows him to tighten his muscles and repress any outward indication of pain. “Yes.”

He repeats the same answer as McCoy presses around his leg, unwinding the bandaging while he goes; it needs to be cleaned again anyway. Spock only falters twice; he has to admit that two areas near his ankle seem oddly painless. He feels only a distant pressure when McCoy touches him there.

“Might be nerve damage, then,” McCoy says. “The scans are a bit unclear – the tissue is still too damaged. We'll see. You're not running anytime soon, that's for sure. And I'm _still_ trying to figure out what that damn plant did to the bone... something it secreted almost melted away your tibia. You're damn lucky it didn't travel further; I don't want to think of what would have happened if it'd reached your skull.”

“Your bedside manner is as reassuring as ever, Doctor.”

“Oh, sorry. You absolutely wouldn't have died a horrible death if this thing has grabbed your head, instead of your leg.” McCoy shakes his head, scowling. “You're off-duty for at least two months.”

“While I admit that some types of work would be difficult, light duty - “

“Is _not_ sufficient when you're going to be regrowing your bones,” McCoy interrupts. “This leg is a mess. I'm recommending you for leave – frankly, you need it anyway.”

Spock ignores the implication. “No one else was injured?”

“Sulu ended up with some weird burns around his arm. Swears he never touched the plant, so maybe this acid or whatever got into the air. _This_ is why I hate survey missions. We'd be safer taking scans from orbit.”

“If we only took scans we would have never determined that this plant was dangerous,” Spock points out.

“Very true, Mr. Spock. And you would still have a bone in your leg, and the ship would still have a science officer!” McCoy stomps away. From his office Spock hears occasional loud sounds – the unnecessarily harsh smack of a padd against a table, a chair screeching.

So emotional.

Without the option of work Spock is left with little to do. He spends several minutes in a quasi-meditative state, carefully stretching his senses to investigate the physical responses of his own body. Hysteria aside, the doctor was correct about one thing – this plant had an entirely inexplicable effect upon his body. Quite fascinating. Spock wonders if the toxin it released would have spread further if left unprompted. Could it have dissolved organs as well? And for what purpose – was the plant carnivorous?

He wonders if the landing party succeeded in collecting a specimen.

He asks this question when Kirk arrives to visit him. The captain levels him a hard look. “Yes,” he snaps at last. “In case something went wrong with your leg, mind you; McCoy wanted a sample for study.”

“Of course. I shall examine it later.”

Kirk presses his lips together and leans back. “There's something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Due to the doctor's tyrannical tendencies, I appear to have ample free time.”

Kirk isn't amused. “When I saw you, on that cliff...” he stops. “ - No, that's not where I should start.”

“Captain?”

Kirk exhales. Leans forward. “I don't mean to badger you when you're sick,” he says, though Spock is technically not 'sick.' “But I was... worried. About whether you were well enough to join the away mission at all, I mean.”

“As Dr. McCoy informed you, my condition has returned to normal – excluding this injury,” Spock corrects.

“Right. But I had a talk with Bones. About that 'illness' you had.”

Spock straightens. If Kirk has questions about his _pon farr..._

“And you couldn't have faked that,” Kirk continues. “But McCoy is sure that it didn't make you suicidal.”

“A bold statement,” Spock says, “As Dr. McCoy is still unable to identify the illness.”

Kirk sends him a sharp look; maybe he _does_ suspect something. “True,” he replies, slowly. “But it doesn't really matter. Bones thought maybe the illness was just... an excuse. Maybe even a way you could justify everything to yourself.”

His leg throbs. Spock clenches a fist around the underside of the biobed. The thin metal bends under his fingers. “Illogical,” he says. Kirk's implacable stare prompts him to elaborate, “Dr. McCoy's supposition suggests that I have deluded myself as well as others.”

“Yes, it does,” agrees Kirk. And adds nothing more.

For a brief moment Spock almost wishes he had allowed himself to burn in the Fever. He would have died, anyway, and it would have been a terrible death – but at least he would not have to be here, suffering the suspicion of the crew day after day. At least there would be peace.

The thought hangs, falls. Slips away.

“I do not see the purpose of this conversation,” Spock says. “Do you require anything, Sir?”

Kirk watches him through flinty eyes. At last he responds, “No. Bones told me you're off duty until your leg is healed; we'll have to discuss the duty-roster later. Until then... get some rest.”

* * *

It was still a logical choice.

That is Spock's conclusion after several hours of meditation.

He's been permitted to return to his quarters, though with strict orders to rest. Such instructions are always slightly perplexing; Spock has a suspicion that McCoy doesn't understand how little sleep Vulcans need. He sleeps for three hours and wakes in the middle of the night, entirely alert. After a moment he discovers that he's been woken by the computer. Someone is trying to call him.

He rises and sits at his desk; the call originates from Vulcan. His parent's estate, more specifically.

Amanda Grayson's face flickers on-screen. Behind her light streams through the windows; it is midday in ShiKahr. Amanda smiles brightly to see him. “

“Mother,” Spock greets. He speaks to his mother more frequently than Sarek, but not often – the last occasion was nearly two years ago. “May I ask the reason for your call?”

“Can't a mother just want to hear her son's voice?”

 _You never did before,_ he does not say. Instead, “I find that you usually have a reason for all your actions.”

Amanda beams as though this is a compliment. “Your father was hinting that I should call,” she confides. “You know, Spock, maybe you should try getting in touch with him. I know you two have your differences, but if you would both stop being so stubborn...”

“It is late, Mother.”

“Oh, I forgot about the time difference.” She doesn't look bothered; Amanda Grayson _does_ know how little sleep Vulcans need. “Is this a bad time?”

It isn't, technically. She takes his response as a cue to begin updating him on all the 'family drama' (he has long ceased explaining that Vulcans do not have 'drama').

“Of course it's very quiet... I can't take any big projects right now, because your father and I will be going on a long-term mission to Delana IV soon. But he's been holed up doing research and yelling at people a million miles away - “

“Vulcans do not 'yell,' Mother - “

“ - and I can only do so much around the house,” she continues, ignoring him with the ease of long practice. “Sometimes I miss the days you and your brother were here,” which is how Spock knows she is feeling _very_ nostalgic; they never mention Sybok, “and of course I love my friends,” although the Vulcans of Amanda's acquaintance might be inclined to debate the term. “But there's nothing quite like having a family to fill the house. You really should come home more, Spock.”

“As it happens, I will soon be visiting Vulcan,” says Spock before he really considers the matter. It is true that he will be required to take sick-leave – but he hasn't determined what he'll do with that time. If anything he had vague intentions of returning to San Francisco on Earth. Starfleet Academy has become a familiar place over the years, and he'd at least have access to the labs there - all under the purview of medical officers with far less motivation than McCoy.

But Amanda looks so pleased he can't regret the impulse. “Oh, that's wonderful! It's been so long...” she trails off. It has been _years,_ actually, since they've seen one another in person. Over a decade.

Spock wonders how long it would have taken her to call without prompting; another year? Two, three? It is odd how widely she smiles at the prospect of a visit.

She clearly does need a distraction.

* * *

The ship is quiet when they depart Theta Aranis III. Though he is still meant to be resting, Spock decides that McCoy can't _really_ expect him to avoid finishing some paperwork before he's forced to turn over his duties. Requisitions, duty-schedules, weekly department reports. Dozens of forms await his approval, and none of them can be skimmed. He sets about making arrangements for his several weeks of leave; he does not look forward to the backlogs that will await his return.

Spock listens to soft Vulcan instrumental music as he works, which seems like a good idea until he catches himself sitting frozen over a standard complaint as _The Tale of Velara_ crescendos through the computer's speakers.

Spock doesn't often listen to music from his homeworld. He doesn't read books in Vulcan, or read up on ShiKahr's latest news, or even talk to people from his own species. He has been divorced from his origins since he made the decision to enter Starfleet. Everyone he meets seems to fall under the assumption that Spock must be _Vulcan_ or _human,_ one or the other, instead of a blend of both. In leaving his planet, he rejected his father's heritage – even though every human seems to perceive the opposite.

But he cannot forget a lifetime of teachings. And he grew up in the desert, under a red sun and a sky with no moon. Some humans on the ship talk nostalgically about games from their youth, or swimming in the ocean, or climbing trees during hot summers. Spock best remembers the warmth and security of childhood when he hears even, measured tones, and smells scorched dirt churned up by the arrhythmic song of two thousand year-old drums. Now, even against the sterile hum of the ship's engines, the recycled air, Vulcan music can make his heart pulse and his chest twist with yearning.

Eventually he sets his work aside. Something in the music spurs him to take down the ancient family weapons lining his wall. Such objects require constant care. One after another he polishes and cleans them – swords, knives, daggers and even a small mace. He pauses over one tiny knife in particular. It has a green hilt, and the whole piece fits inside his palm. Slim and beautiful - but it looks dull. Unused weapons should not be sharpened too much, yet he finds himself bringing out a whetting stone from a dusty box in his closet. The weapon is old and requires careful, precise tending.

Spock listens to the music as he hones the blade. After some time he sets one finger against its edge. A drop of green blood wells up almost effortlessly. The metal is so sharp he does not feel any pain.

He wipes the blood away. From his computer the song changes to a ballad, haunting and earnest. It distracts him for a moment.

The story in the song is deeply unsettling. And familiar, even though Spock has never heard it before. It is a story of two warrior-brothers, two _t'hy'la._ One dies to save his bond-brother from certain destruction; the surviving partner lives a full and successful life. He is a hero, even though every deed is accompanied by a deep and endless grief.

All stories about _t'hy'la_ end similarly. There is no happy-ending for such warriors, unless they have the good fortune to die together.

But he has never really considered the fate of the warrior left behind.

Spock pauses. He considers the weapon in his hand, silver and smooth and alone. He sets it down. Stands up.

There is no one in the hallway when he limps outside, dragging his burning leg behind him. There are no witnesses as he hovers in front of Captain Kirk's door and struggles to frame the things he wants to say. It is late, but he knows Jim would welcome his company; would ask what he needs; would allow Spock to stumble over his words with fantastic patience. But Spock cannot adequately put those words together. He speaks six languages, and he cannot begin to explain the agitation clawing up his spine, the nameless and destructive hunger hollowing his stomach.

Distant voices. Spock turns and walks away before anyone can see his indecision.

His feet take him to the observation deck. The yawning black void of space is somehow safer than his still and silent quarters. And here, alone, he can acknowledge the truth. Some part of him yearns to grab up the weapons decorating his walls and cut out the hollowness in his chest.

It is not a new sensation.

Years ago, as he prepared to leave Vulcan for the water-rich world of his mother's people, Spock told his father that he wished to learn more about his heritage. Under Sarek's implacable stare he made one excuse after another; he could not enter politics because other Vulcans would not accept his voice at the negotiating table. He would be more effective at the frontiers of space. Starfleet needs more Vulcans, different perspectives. He made many arguments, all of them logical.

But here is the truth; he was searching for something, and he still has not found it, even among all the wonders and horrors of the past two decades.

He makes a decision.

* * *

“Captain, may I speak with you?”

“Of course, Spock. Just let me finish...”

Kirk hesitates in the doorway. Does a double-take.

“Jim?”

Wordlessly, Kirk gestures him inside. He strides over to his desk and taps a button; the computer shuts down. He has a number of padds aligned on the desk, and clearly was working.

But he doesn't give any sign of impatience. “Tea, Spock?”

Spock declines. Kirk doesn't seem to hear; he fetches a cup anyway.

Spock has been considering the best way to start this conversation for 3.7 hours. Now, cradling a cup between his hands and shifting his aching leg, every option seems insufficient. He opens his mouth.

But Kirk, as always, does not abide by the plans of others.

“You know,” says Kirk, “I always meant to talk to you. After what happened above Psi 2000.”

Spock pauses. Kirk's face is usually open and expressive, but the distance in his eyes is still familiar – the look of someone struggling to piece together disparate data fragments. He sets down the tea and stands shakily. Reconsiders his decision to come, and the distance to the door. “An unusual mission, Captain, but I believe we debriefed adequately in the aftermath.” The mission is more than a year past. Spock struggles to determine the relevance of this sudden shift. “What precisely did you wish to discuss?”

“Tomlinson.”

“...A regrettable death.”

“Yes. But not entirely unexpected. Bones mentioned that, remember? The virus lowered his inhibitions, so he killed himself. But the things he said were always hinted at in his psych profile... the feelings were always there.”

Spock's keeps his face impassive. “That is akin to saying that Mr. Riley has a sincere desire to mutiny and abscond with your ship.”

“Oh, but he does,” Kirk challenges. “It's just a fantasy, sure, but he does. Sulu lived out his dream to be a pirate, and people all over the ship started abandoning work for fun. Except Tomlinson, whose deepest desire was a bit different. And you... I wasn't going to mention it, Spock. I thought it was best to pretend like it never happened. But maybe that was a mistake.”

“Captain – Jim - “

Spock falters when Kirk steps in front of him. It's hard to categorize the emotional display on the captain's face – tension, anger, grief.

Quietly: “You were crying.”

Spock doesn't know how to reply. He can't deny it; Kirk was there, in that room, and it is true that they have never discussed this. He has always been grateful for that – but clearly the reprieve is over.

“I thought it was just an isolated incident, but...”

“It is unwise to base your judgments on an encounter that occurred under the influence of an alien disease.”

“But it wasn't just one incident, was it? Spock - we all know what happened. In your quarters, and on the planets... That's why you're here, isn't it?”

“You appear agitated, Sir. That was not my intent.”

“I'm not angry,” Kirk snaps.

“I did not say you were. Will you explain what you mean by all this?”

Kirk rubs the back of his neck, pacing restlessly along one side of the table. He ignores the chairs, so Spock remains standing too.

“I'm not angry,” Kirk repeats. “Just. Spock, why would you - ?”

He gestures uselessly in the air.

“You will have to clarify,” Spock provides.

Kirk works his jaw. Wavers. For a moment it seems that he might turn and start pacing again.

But Kirk isn't one to back down from a hard situation.

“Fine,” he says. “Do you want me to say it? We thought you were going to hurt yourself down on that planet last week – everyone did – and you're acting like nothing happened!”

“'Nothing' is precisely what took place. And I assure you, Sir, I would never compromise the success of a landing party.”

This is the wrong thing to say.

Kirk lunges forward to grab his arm in a bruising grip. “Sometimes I think you're trying to drive me crazy,” he bites out. “Because I can't think of any other reason you'd be this foolish, Spock. I really can't.”

“I do not - “

“Just tell me honestly,” Kirk says, shifting abruptly. “Did you think about it, Spock?”

“Think about - “

“On the ledge, on the planet... Did you _think_ about it?”

Spock's instinct is to say, _no,_ but he remembers the wind curving off the cliff-face, the tiny alien cat squirming in his arms. It would be so easy, he'd thought. Set down the cat, step forward – they might take it for a rock-slide. An accident.

No one would ever know.

He hesitates too long. Kirk's expression tightens, and he shakes his arm.

The violence of this act makes Spock stumble. By reflex he starts to pull away, but Kirk wraps an arm around his waist, tugging Spock's neck closer with his other hand.

Oh.

Spock feels a shudder convulse his body. He clutches automatically at Kirk, unbalanced by the suddenness of their contact. The captain's face presses into his shoulder.

Spock is not sure how to respond. Captain Kirk has always been tactile with him. But the man has never tried instigating a 'hug.'

Another shudder. Spock does not feel cold, but he can't stop shaking. “It's alright,” Kirk says, in response to nothing at all. Nonsensical mutterings. His voice makes it hard for Spock to focus on his body, to determine why he is suddenly unbalanced, trembling.

Highly illogical. Spock closes his eyes in an attempt to center himself. This makes him realize his eyes feel damp; he blinks rapidly instead.

“We can help you, if you'd let us,” Jim says against his shoulder.

Spock pulls away. “I came here to request leave on Vulcan,” he manages.

Kirk grabs for him again, then visibly restrains himself.

The distance echoes between them. Again, as in so many other instances, Spock knows what it is to be Other. Insufficient. Here is a silent offer, one he cannot take; they both recognize it.

Spock takes one precise step back. The captain inhales. Straightens.

“Vulcan,” he echoes. “Yes, I – yes. Because of your leg.”

They both know that is only part of the reason.

“Yes,” says Spock.

“And you're not – you don't intend - “

“I expect I will be back aboard the Enterprise within several weeks,” Spock says. “I do, of course, have the accumulated leave.”

“Of course.” Kirk assesses him. At last he nods and steps closer, clasping Spock on the arm. “Then... I'm glad to hear it, Spock. Take as long as you want. And if you need _anything..._ ”

“Of course,” Spock murmurs, and wonders when he became so accustomed to lying.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock goes to Vulcan for medical leave, and completely fails to attain treatment.

“Are you sure you don't want someone to escort you inside?” asks Lieutenant Devons, shifting from one foot to another behind the transporter console. “It would only take a moment - “

“I am quite capable of walking a dozen meters,” says Spock, carefully leaning against his cane to swing his bag into a more firm position over his shoulder. The bag knocks painfully against his back, making Spock's breath shudder. Devons does not seem comforted. “Energize, Lieutenant.”

Devons reluctantly obeys. With a brief hum, the transporter room of the _USS Odyssey_ disappears.

The ship was already close to Vulcan space. Spock has no idea if his parents are even on-planet right now, but finds himself hoping they are away. He has no desire to deal with his mother's inevitable questions, or Sarek's icy silences.

The transporter deposits him off the family estate in ShiKahr in the midst of a blisteringly hot day. Vulcan's sun looms large overhead; he can feel his traitorous human sweat-glands stirring into activity. Spock has not stepped foot on Vulcan in years, and this is an inauspicious homecoming. He wavered over his plans long enough that arrangements were not solidified until 1.2 hours until he was beamed aboard the _Odyssey._

The sudden heat exerts itself like a shove, blanketing him in heavy air. Spock sways and leans against his crutch in support. He finds himself meeting the alert gazes of two Vulcans standing guard outside the front entrance.

He recognizes them, of course. Stellan and Velorak have been employed by his clan for decades. Some of Spock's earliest memories include meditating with Velorak outside the ambassadorial offices. Stellan taught him how to use the lirpa when Sarek proved himself too occupied for the task.

“Commander Spock,” says Stellan after a pause. 'Commander,' his Starfleet rank, because no one is quite sure about his status in the clan. “We did not realize you were on-planet. We shall alert the remainder of your clan's security to your presence.”

Spock limps closer. Velorak, always a more taciturn individual, steps up and relieves him of his bags without a word. “Why is such security necessary?” he wonders. His father's political career – and his parent's unpopular marriage – means that they often bring along guards when traveling off-world. On Vulcan such positions are more often ceremonial – this house is not usually guarded.

Velorak and Stellan look at each other, but their expressions reveal nothing. After so long in the company of humans it's almost jarring. “You have not been informed of the attack?” Stellan clarifies.

Spock's leg burns under his weight. Dr. McCoy warned him not to stand too long. “I have not.”

Stellan's voice lacks any inflection; it is probably just Spock's fatigue that makes him imagine the flash of sympathy in his face. “Lady Amanda is in the hospital,” he says briefly. “Someone tried to murder her.”

* * *

The two guards escort Spock inside after calling for replacements. Spock immediately moves into the nearby _kirse_ , a sort of dayroom used to greet visitors. There he sits himself in the small chair nearest the door, relieving his leg. The decision is more than practical; this chair is the only one free of blood, glass, or scorch-marks.

An investigative team has already swept the house, Stellan informs him. They found nothing.

“The cameras have been disabled,” Stellan explains. “Your mother must have invited the attacker inside,” though that does not mean they were acquainted. Amanda Grayson frequently entertains guests ranging from researchers to journalists to fellow high-ranking Vulcan socialites. Determining a suspect on that basis would be impossible.

“She has not been able to identify her attacker?”

“She has not yet woken.”

Amanda Grayson is in the hospital with three broken ribs and a concussion. But worse, the healers believe she was telepathically assaulted. In the hours since Sarek has rarely left her side; under such circumstances their marriage-bond could be a crucial aid to her health.

“If you wish to visit the hospital I will escort you,” Velorak declares. Likely he thinks along the same lines – but Spock was never able to maintain a link with his mother. “If this assailant targets the Lady Amanda, rather than the ambassador, you may also be at risk.”

Spock refuses. “I will be of more use here,” he decides, glancing around the blood-splattered room. Red blood, only. If his father hadn't left the consulate early – and heard the screams - his mother would doubtlessly be dead. “Please forward me the guard schedule for reference. You may return to your posts.”

They bow and excuse themselves. Spock has to brace himself against the wall to stand. Normally he would simply hire a cleaning-service for a mess of this magnitude, but under present circumstances it seems unwise to invite strangers into the house. No matter; the closet down the hall still holds cleaning supplies.

Before he begins Spock has the foresight to retrieve his communicator and cancel his first appointment with the healers. McCoy will never know – and Spock suspects he will be well-occupied in the coming days.

* * *

By the time Spock wakes the sun has dimmed to a tired red light peeking over the horizon. He was not sleeping deeply – but then, he had not intended to sleep at all. He finds himself sitting on the floor leaning heavily against a half-repaired chair; the arm was torn away at some point. Each detail he discovers gives Spock an unpleasant perspective of the fight his mother barely survived.

The room has acquired a biting scent of disinfectant. Stellan kneels in front of him, frowning; Velorak's silhouette disappears into a side-room, returning swiftly with tea.

Or perhaps not so swiftly - Stellan's grip around his arms will probably leave bruises. The man shakes him slightly. “Do you require medical attention?” he demands.

“I do not,” Spock denies. His initial appointment was scheduled for half an hour previous. He is also meant to see mind-healer in the morning; that needs to be canceled, too. “Has your shift concluded?”

“Technically,” is the cryptic reply. Stellan helps him to his feet and presses Spock into the chair. Then he stands frowning.

Velorak presses a steaming cup into his hands. The tea is incongruously bitter.

“I will remain here tonight,” Velorak pronounces unexpectedly.

“I am trained as a medic,” Stellan disagrees. “I will remain.”

“I do not require medical aid,” Spock repeats. Stellan's expression does not shift, but somehow the glare he levels at Spock makes him feel like a child again. Spock relents and rests for the rest of the night in his old rooms, now dust-covered but otherwise unchanged.

He wakes later than intended, feverish and sweating. Vulcans do not sweat, and Spock has always found the sensation unpleasant. He has not felt so ill since the first night after receiving this injury, but a quick check of the wound in his leg yields no signs of infection. Tiny green-black seams of burnt skin encircle his entire leg, but the marks are clean.

Stellan has already prepared a simple breakfast when he makes his way to the front of the house. This is not unexpected of a Vulcan guest, but it's disorienting when the old guard moves through every room with more surety than Spock himself.

After eating Stellan asks about his leg. He seems visibly taken aback to learn that Spock is here to regrow damaged bones. The treatment will require multiple weeks with an osteogenerator.

Spock has canceled his appointments for the next several days, though; there are more pressing matters. “What is the name of the officer overseeing this investigation?”

“You are referring to Sub-Commander Terik of the ShiKahr Security Commission. I have already been in contact with them, but I will obtain more updates while you rest.”

“I have already slept; I will speak with the Sub-Commander myself.”

In response Stellan flicks his gaze down to Spock's damaged leg. But he agrees, “Very well, Sir,” without any change of inflection.

Walking on sand – with crutches – proves to be an engaging problem in its own right. Stellan has clearly aged in their years apart; he insists on stopping at several points to sit down and rest. The unaccustomed heat saps Spock's strength and turns those pauses into an unbearable delay, but he makes no comment on the matter.

ShiKahr is an ancient city, which in Vulcan means it is a city with an utterly illogical design. But the transportation system is well connected, and the clan estate where Spock stays is centered near the heart of the city, just as his family has always circled near the heart of Vulcan politics. They reach Commission headquarters before midday; Spock would rather interrogate the investigating officers in person before relying on distant computerized calls, where it is all too easy to be dismissed as an overly-anxious human.

The Security Commission is smaller than its grand name would suggest. Crime is rare on Vulcan; many districts are supervised by computers, with a few administrative workers who deal with issues like land disputes, lost children, and so forth. Most calls tend to fall into a few specific categories: reports of deaths or sudden injuries, confessions, complaints about legal disagreements or disruptive tourists, or accidents caused by the very old, very young, or mentally infirm.

So though all officers of the Commission are technically trained to deal with cases of attempted murder, Spock would be genuinely surprised if Sub-Commander Terik has dealt with it before.

Nonetheless, the woman greets him with a cool professionalism. She also refuses to reveal any details about the ongoing investigation.

“Starfleet has no jurisdiction in this matter,” she explains. Which is perfectly true. “And we do not have a policy of involving family members with the investigation. Though should you have any information we need, this department will be in contact.”

She doesn't expect him to argue, and he can't, really; were their positions reversed Spock would never allow a family-member to interfere with a murder case. He could argue that he knows his mother's habit, that he has special insight into the case... but ultimately, any argument will be calmly, logically refuted.

He does extract a promise for updates on the general state of the investigation, and confirms that his mother is well-monitored at the hospital. There is little else he can do.

* * *

The Rytemk hospital of ShiKahr is oppressively silent. It is logical, of course, for a hospital to be quiet; patients need rest, and physicians must be able to communicate quickly and clearly.

But over the years Spock has become accustomed to the muted chaos of an active infirmary. The empty halls an silent rooms he passes remind him of a mission from when he was just an Ensign. A plague-hospital, rendered silent because many of the patients were too mute for speech – and many more were dead.

He pushes the thought away and follows a doctor into his mother's room. She has a private room – Vulcan hospitals are full of discreet, private rooms – and the healer gestures to a seat at her bedside.

“If you can connect to her mind, leave the meld every fifteen minutes to ensure you are not stuck,” the healer reminds him; he assumes that Spock is here to meld with his mother, not just stare at her uselessly. So Spock does not correct him. He is further informed that Sarek left forty-one minutes ago, but will return tonight. “Press this button if her condition changes.” The doctor glances at Spock's legs. “ - Or if you require any assistance.”

Then he leaves Spock alone.

Amanda Grayson is in a coma. She seems shockingly aged to Spock's eyes. When he left almost two decades ago her hair was thick and dark; her face unlined; her skin pale and firm, despite the unforgiving heat of Vulcan. Now her head is spotted with gray, and when he picks up a limp hand, almost by reflex, the wrinkled skin feels like soft satin.

Humans age terribly fast. Another twenty years and Spock will still be young, but his mother may be dead. Perhaps he should make more of an effort to see her. If she ever wakes again.

He does try to reach her mind, but meets no success. Her consciousness slips from his grasp like smoke and there is no link to tether them.

But he remains sitting. Often Spock wakes in Sickbay with crewmembers at his side. Humans like to offer their presence when people are injured – even when that individual is unconscious – so he reasons that they must gain something from the company. Obviously even Sarek sees the logic in that idea, if he has been here so often.

Spock lets himself fall into a half-meditative state for a few hours. Eventually he is stirred by a burst of activity from the hallway. Amanda remains oblivious, but Spock rises to venture outside.

Down the hall two boys collide with the wall, rattling thick transparent-aluminum windows before crashing to the ground. Spock leans against the door and watches them. They appear to be practicing a form of aggressive physical activity meant to hone reflexes and hand-eye coordination. If Amanda were awake she'd say that they were _playing,_ but such exercises are specifically encouraged by educational instructors and solely intended to train the body.

One boy dives at the other's legs. They fall over in a tangle of shouts.

Spock recalls engaging in a similar exercise in his youth. During one practice, when he was six, he had been sparring back and forth with an older girl when he stumbled. Her next lunge punched him in the throat, far harder than intended. At that young age he was unable to quell his strangled sound of surprise, or the tears that welled in his eyes by pure reflex.

Nearby students balked. Normal Vulcans only cry when severely ill, dying, or hysterically emotional. He struggled to repress the tears as an instructor was summoned, as the older woman declared him 'unharmed,' and as she scolded him for deliberately attracting attention.

Later, Sarek arrived and pointedly informed the instructor that Spock did not have the strength or physical capabilities of a full-blooded Vulcan. They must be careful with him, Sarek insisted; and he _would_ know if Spock were harmed by “any other treatment inappropriate to his circumstances.”

At home, Sarek told Spock that he could not help but be what he was. The next day the instructor asked Spock to remove himself from the physical lessons; none of the other students ever commented on his outburst, but they would not spar with him again, and always downplayed their strength when paired in other activities.

As the year went on Spock practiced poking his arm with a burning needle until he controlled the urge to cry. Sometimes mastery of the self is painful, but he never again wept until that day in the briefing room, where Jim found him.

As Spock contemplates these memories the boys down the hall struggle to their feet. They both freeze when they see him – and then, as one, whirl around and disappear through another door.

Amanda continues to sleep. Perhaps it is time that he leaves, too.

* * *

When Spock returns home the guards inform him that Sarek has just returned to the hospital. Velorak offers to assist him inside – Spock has developed a more severe limp – but he declines.

Spock eats and cancels the next day's appointment with his physician. As he does so Spock notices another video message from Doctor McCoy, which he is inclined to ignore; there is also a very small text message, which he opens curiously.

It's in large letters:

**CALL ME OR I'M TELLING THE VULCANS TO SEARCH FOR YOUR DEAD BODY.**

Extremely unnecessary. He places a call, of course.

McCoy does not pick up immediately; in fact the machine flickers yellow – a sign that it's about to cancel the call – when suddenly Spock is presented with a view of the muted green Sickbay walls. Dr. McCoy's office, yet no one inside.

“Yes, yes, just let me finish this – and tell Ensign Modiva that I'm banning him from Engine Room 2 if he comes in with one more burn. Yes, I can do that! Just you tell him - “

The hiss of a door sliding shut. Background sounds quiet. McCoy suddenly drops into frame, scowling furiously.

“What the _hell_ do you think you've been doing?” he immediately demands.

“You will have to be more precise, Doctor.

“Do you think I haven't been watching your records? I call Doctor Seven, on Vulcan – you've canceled every appointment since you arrived!”

Irritating, Therefore, characteristic. “Circumstances arose - “

“Don't even try it. Do you know how hard it is to regrow bone? You could get an infection, and the longer you wait - “

“There is no danger in losing a mere 24 hours - “

“And _this_ is why you're not a doctor! Not to mention you haven't seen the mind-healer you promised to visit. Spock, I don't want to do this, but if you won't get treatment I _have_ to note it as negligence in your file - “

Spock interrupts, “My mother is in the hospital.”

McCoy's stuttering stops. He blinks rapidly a few times, almost bewildered. “Your mother?” he asks, like it's a foreign concept.

“Yes. I have been occupied. Making arrangements.”

“Oh. Uh.” It appears the doctor doesn't have a response to this new vein of avoidance. “I'm, uh, sorry to hear that? - But you still can't skip these appointments, Spock. You could do permanent damage to that leg. Do you understand me?”

“I will attend as soon as I am able,” Spock agrees.

“...You know, you're supposed to be _relaxing_.”

That was never agreed upon. “Is there anything else you require, Doctor McCoy?”

There isn't. The call ends after the doctor tells him to _call if you need anything, Spock – anything at all, I mean it._

And afterward Spock sits at the desk in silence, regulating his breathing and subduing the riot of puzzling emotions bristling under his skin. There is no reason for such a short conversation to disturb his equilibrium.

The computer lights up again. An incoming transmission from Captain Kirk.

Spock rejects the call and retreats to meditate for the rest of the evening.


	6. Chapter 6

“As I have stated, Sevin – my father is not here. He may be reached at the Rytemk hospital, but I expect that he has greater concerns.”

“There _are_ no greater concerns,” says assistant attaché Sevin. The younger Vulcan could not be called _agitated,_ but he holds himself with an unmistakable tension; his words come out clipped and fast. “We have been trying to negotiate with the Faurin system for three years. They have finally agreed to _consider_ opening their borders to the Federation, and potentially contemplating membership. If Ambassador Sarek will not speak with them, this insult - “

Spock has a vague memory of visiting an outpost near Faurin space as an ensign. His knowledge of their legal codes and procedures is more recent. “Under Faurin law, family members are able to assume the duties and legal responsibilities of their kin,” he recalls. He's read about an incident where a governor's underage son acted as regent. Though technically a republic, their legal perception of family makes the system borderline monarchical. “As a Starfleet command officer I am also qualified to negotiate on behalf of the Federation. I will speak with them myself.”

Sevin, after only a moment of shocked stillness, protests strenuously. Spock remains firm though; Vulcan law _also_ grants him rights in certain diplomatic areas. Within an hour they're setting off for the ambassadorial reception offices, which compose a significant part of the sprawling Department of Diplomatic Affairs.

This massive complex is only a few blocks away from the ancient halls that hosts the Vulcan High Council. As a child Spock walked the path between those buildings nearly every week. Sarek envisioned a life of politics for him, and if Spock wasn't shadowing his father he was often trailing some minor cousin or aide – on rare occasions he even traveled with Lady T'Pau, seated with the old matriarch in her swaying palanquin.

But now there are unfamiliar additions to the Department, which seem smaller than he remembers. Other things remain unchanged - the briskly efficient, blank-faced messengers darting between halls, the almost sober silence. He even glimpses a bored girl trailing behind one of the junior diplomats, quite probably dragged along for the sake of her own education.

By contrast the noise from the Faurin party is jarring. Spock needs no directions; he simply makes a beeline for the raised, agitated voices drifting through the halls.

The Faurin homeworld has a high number of tectonic plates that makes it dangerously unstable. The whole planet is a rolling series of mountains and valleys. Much of the water has been subsumed underground, so the people are decently prepared for the dry heat of Vulcan's capital.

By all accounts the Faurin do not mind their dangerous planet. The three diplomats waiting near Sarek's office are tall and dark – their skin so spiked with craggy rivets that Spock suspects they may be chitinous. The largest of the visitors towers almost two feet above Spock. At his entrance the strangers abruptly ends his complaints to the others, narrowing gold-slitted eyes.

“Are you here to caution us for more patience?” the ambassador demands. “I have heard it said that Vulcans are a reasonable people, but this wait - “

“I am here to apologize,” Spock interrupts. By his side the attaché, Sevin, gives him a dubious glance. Vulcans admit their wrongs; they do not apologize for things outside their control. “Unfortunately, Ambassador Sarek is unavailable. As his son I hope to begin discussions on his behalf.”

At that Sevin shoots him another, sterner glare. Claiming to speak for Sarek is presumptuous at best.

But necessary.

“I was unaware that Sarek had a son,” says the Faurin ambassador. Spock stands straight and calm under his calculating gaze. Finally the visitor huffs. “Very well. Let us not waste any more time.”

* * *

After relocating the head diplomat introduces himself as Ambassador Krydare. He neglects to provide names for his quiet assistants. Spock is unsure if this is a slight against them or himself, and does not ask.

“We are aware that the Federation desires our planet for its resources of dilithium rather than our cultural or scientific merits,” is Ambassador Krydare's less-than-promising opening.

Brisk and efficient, the man gives no sign of offense at the idea. But emotional species can be deceptive in such things. “It is true that we are interested in securing trade relations for the Federation,” says Spock, who has been hastily briefed this morning. “However, we trade with many unaffiliated worlds. The Federation of Planets gains strength from the infinite diversity of its members, and we have much to offer your world.”

“Primarily military protection,” Krydare counters. “Which you would provide in either case if only to prevent the Klingons or Tholians from accessing our dilithium.”

This is true, in a broad sense. But it is rather surprising for Krydare to acknowledge it so openly. Spock mentally reassesses Krydare's motivations. Leans back, steepling his fingers. “You show great resistance to the idea of Federation membership. Yet you have accepted my father's invitation to meet here. Ambassador, what is it that you hope to obtain today?”

Krydare sends him a piercing look. “You are aware, of course, that until this point we have only provided mining rights to a select number of Vulcan citizens. Your people have an excellent reputation in this galaxy.”

Spock waits. When nothing else is forthcoming he glances around the table. Each member of the ambassador's party sits in somber silence. But they're all awaiting his response, and by the door Velorak shifts and changes positions, perhaps aware of the tension.

“Vulcans are often recognized as impartial intermediaries,” Spock acknowledges slowly. “If you request our assistance in approaching the Federation, our resources are, of course, at your disposal.”

Krydare presses his lips together. Oddly, this does not seem to be the answer he seeks.

Spock resolves to examine his father's records more closely. He is missing a crucial detail; the negotiations cannot go forward until he understands what the Faurin _want._

“I am weary,” says Ambassador Krydare. “Your people kept us waiting a long while. Let us reconvene at a later date. And please, Commander – we are quite eager to speak with your father.”

* * *

Once back at the estate Spock fends off Stellan's attempts to remain. The guard has already pulled a number of extra shifts and does not need to exhaust himself. But Velorak stay nearby despite his protests; both of these two are more loyal than he deserves.

Alone, Spock notices and ignores a message from Captain Kirk. Doubtlessly more expressions of admonition and concern – though he does read McCoy's message, as he would not put it past the doctor to contact Vulcan authorities if ignored. This transmission consists of another list of threats alongside pointed queries about his upcoming appointments. It serves as an excellent reminder – Spock still needs to cancel the next upcoming visits. Perhaps he should just delay all appointments indefinitely. As long as he can walk his injured leg is no priority.

Lieutenant Uhura has also sent an amicable but somewhat pointless missive informing him of an odd rendering of a code she's been studying. She seems amused by her own difficulties and does not request assistance, so he is uncertain whether the implication should be clear, or if she is just engaging in some human social ritual. As a precaution he will have to study the code at a later date and try to offer advice.

After looking through these correspondences Spock stretches out his throbbing leg and occupies several hours with a study of Sarek's notes on the Faurin homeworld. This proves to be a tedious task; his father's organization is impeccable, but he also has a bad habit of labeling files with obscure and meaningless numbers. Doubtlessly Sarek knows what 'file TFX-119' contains without opening it, but Spock does not. It is the first time he finds himself wistful for the sometimes irreverent reports of his crewmates, who often turn in packets with naming conventions like “Andor Visit, Informal Political Information – Stardate 2109.4” side-by-side with “Purple Planet w/ the Amnesia Gas – Stardate ?!?!”

Lieutenant Zera always insists that there is a 'method to the madness.' _With respect, Sir, none of us will remember a planet called Beta Orion IV. But we're not forgetting an entire science team becoming convinced they're teenagers._

Humans possess a truly fascinating brand of logic.

As Spock reads he forcibly shuts off the portion of his brain that receives pain-signals. This serves as an adequate solution until he sets down his padd to retrieve a cup of tea in the kitchen. While the fragrant tea boils he rests his hand on a burning pot and fails to realize the mistake until the skin touching its metal develops bright green blisters.

He drops the pot. Burning water splashes around his feet in an explosion of steam. He does not feel it, but sighs heavily,

It is possible he needs to sleep.

Spock indulges in a moment of weakness by leaning against the wall with a muttered oath that would delight Dr. McCoy. Which, of course, is when he hears a familiar voice:

“Spock?”

Spock jumps and looks toward the doorway. His father stands there with another Vulcan, both wearing dark robes and inscrutable expressions. His father has one eyebrow arched; Spock straightens. “Do you require assistance?” Sarek asks slowly.

“I do not.”

He begins clearing away the mess – mostly to avoid looking at his father. The skin on his hands glows bright and angry. Sarek waits a moment, then concedes, “I have intended to speak with you; please join us in the southern parlor when you are able.”

Under other circumstances Spock might be tempted to linger – to logically prepare for the upcoming conversation, of course – but his leg burns under him, and his hands shake so hard from the simple strain of standing that he's forced to move hurriedly. He joins Sarek and his vaguely-familiar associate in the parlor, where the two await him in patient silence.

Sarek introduces his associate as junior aide Derik. The young Vulcan holds himself with the ramrod stiffness of someone not yet comfortable in the presence of the planet's premier ambassador; Spock finds himself mirroring the posture.

Desiring to fill the silence, Spock immediately requests pardon for his lapse of control. Sarek nods once without looking him in the face. Junior aide Derik says, “It is unsurprising in your circumstances.” Spock interprets this to mean, _unsurprising in a human._

Spock sits across from his father. He can feel sweat gathering at his temples from his previous exertions. His hands still burn green, so he does not dare release his pain-controls. Hopefully these signs of strain are not evident. In Spock's youth full-blooded Vulcans often assumed he was near the brink of collapse when viewing such visible symptoms of exertion.

Sarek does not address him immediately. “You have not met with the Faurin since their arrival?” he asks the aide.

“No. I did not receive your messages, Ambassador. Though the embassy staff have informed me that the Faurin did agree to meet with someone this morning.”

“They have a very strict hierarchy; I expect this will be taken as an insult.”

“I am the one who spoke with their ambassador,” Spock offers. Derik raises his eyebrows. “It seemed necessary, despite the impropriety.”

“...That _may_ lessen the repercussions of our absence,” Derik says. “Presuming they do not take offense at such a substitution.”

“I am aware that I am not an ideal representative of Vulcan. Though hopefully that will not be viewed as any reflection on my father.”

Derik tilts his head. Sarek interrupts as though Spock has not spoken. “The Faurin will accept any family member as an adequate replacement for professional purposes. Derik, you may wish to review their cultural notes more closely.”

“I shall do so at once,” says the aide, and exits immediately.

Derik's swift departure leaves the room feeling empty. Sarek observes his son with an unreadable expression.

Silence stretches between them. Spock stands on swaying legs. It was a mistake, he understands suddenly, to remain at his childhood home. Even now he only manages to disgrace and inconvenience his father, who must already be under considerable strain.

“I apologize for intruding,” says Spock, and moves to leave.

Sarek rises as well. “You have avoided me since your arrival.”

What? “I have not.” Outside the room Spock hears someone moving by the door – Stellan or Velorak, probably. He ignores it.

Then he finds himself hoping he is wrong, that no one is nearby, when Sarek says: “You seek to avoid the consequences of your suicide attempt.”

“There were no consequences.”

“There are _always_ consequences.”

Spock is unsure how to respond. His father doesn't seem bothered by his admittedly dubious interference with the Faurin. And Spock's _pon farr_ passed weeks ago – so why bring it up now?

“I survived,” says Spock. It rings hollow. “I do not understand what else needs to be addressed.

“Your motivations.”

“Preservation of the crew,” he replies. And, when Sarek just continues to look at him: “My other reasons are unimportant.”

He tries to leave again.

“I would meld with you,” says Sarek before he can go.

Spock pauses by the door. “May I ask why?”

“I want to understand your current logic.”

“...If you can be more specific, I could tell you - “

Sarek repeats, “I would meld with you.”

Spock does not frown. But he hesitates.

Sarek is his father; it is perfectly within his rights to request a meld. In fact it is common for family members to meld, though the two of them never have.

So Spock cannot think of a logical reason to refuse the request. He assents.

When Sarek touches his face they slide together easily. It surprises Spock, somehow, and for reasons he barely grasps this offends Sarek. Then he understands: why should they _not_ fit together? They are family. But not close. And never united.

They are confused/affronted. Never united? They have always tried to support Spock. Struggled to help him. Except they remember returning from school at six years old, after an older classmate threatened to kill them. They had bruised knuckles from fending away the bullies' taunting shoves and later their father/self said, _you should have more control, Spock. They will not target you if you properly contain your emotions._

Blend in. Act Vulcan, never human. Make everyone forget their heritage.

But that is not what they meant. They never meant -

The memories tumble together. They are seven and T'pring touches their mind, and her touch is cold. She tells them she will take no delight in being their mate. They are fortunate her clan will overlook breeding in exchange for political connections. They do not deserve her.

They are twelve and the classroom instructor bids the students to write about hybridization of sentient species. His comments are pointed, deliberate. When they get home their father says it is _a very important lesson_ and they know that such interactions cannot be avoided; they will always be hated, will always be lesser. There is no use fighting it.

_But that is not what they meant -_

They are fifteen and test first in the class. Their peers accuse them of cheating. Their father asks, did you? When they say no they respond, so pointedly, _then you have no reason for concern_. They wonder if their father really thinks them incapable of performing well - incapable of besting pure-blooded Vulcans.

But that is not -

They are eighteen and their father stops speaking to them when they join Starfleet. It is understandable. This is one more way that they are too human. There is no purpose making contact.

The separation was inevitable.

They are twenty-one, and peers in Starfleet say they are _such a Vulcan_ and never notice if their lips twitch at jokes, if they allow themselves to feel tired, angry, despondent. It is all a lie. They are twenty-seven and their colleagues die in front of them and it is their fault, and their subordinate cries and beats their chest and calls them _heartless._ They are thirty-five and have a friend; it is shameful. They are thirty-eight and burning, burning, they are _Vulcan_ in this but for once they wish they were not. It hurts. And perhaps it is better to go, remembering the cold touch of T'Pring's mind. What is the point of living like this, what is the logic -

They linger oddly over a particular memory, just prior to the time they set off for Starfleet. Every decade Vulcan holds a series of music competitions across the entire planet. Spock and Sarek, both skilled in the lyre, competed. They were praised in different ways. Sarek's work was technically perfect, and he always played songs he composed himself. His technique was pronounced innovative. For decades he ranked high among planetary musicians, though his primary dedication was politics.

Spock, by contrast, was a new competitor. And as he continued to win local and regional competitions, people murmured at first that perhaps his father's influence had affected the judge's decisions. Surely there was no other reason for a child to progress so far.

But musical experts contested the view. They praised his elegant playing, his smooth transitions, how appropriately he reflected the tone of each piece. Yet dozens of articles and discussions on his performances admitted that it was hard to pinpoint the allure of his music – though most experts agreed that he was, indeed, very skilled.

(It would never have occurred to the judges to say that Spock's music was more _emotive_ than the rest _._ This, in the Vulcan view, would not be a positive quality.)

At the end, it was just Spock and his father competing against one another. Sarek performed first – a serious, solemn piece, expertly performed but uninspired to non-Vulcan ears. And when Spock's turn came he stared across the stage into his father's serene, dignified gaze. He played every note as-written. Every glissando and change in tempo, every dip in pitch was precise and perfect.

It was also dull. He lost.

Afterward, Sarek concluded that Spock had been unwilling to best his father. He approached Spock and said he was disappointed in his son's conduct.

What he did not know was this: Spock had not failed deliberately.

What _Spock_ knew was this: he could be second-best, among all the Vulcans in the world, and still he could disappoint his father.

They come out of the meld together. Sarek's hand is warm on his face; for a moment they stare, faces and foreheads almost touching, both shaken by the return to reality.

Sarek drops his hand. Steps back.

“I make you diminish,” he says. Spock finds himself stricken by the bare _grief_ in his father's voice.

He doesn't know how to respond.

As it turns out, he doesn't have to. “I will return,” his father says, vanishing out the door as suddenly as he had appeared.

And Spock is alone, again, with only his thoughts for company.

* * *

Sarek returns to the hospital without speaking to his son again.

Afterward, as he watches darkness overtake the world outside the windows, Spock contemplates visiting the hospital. But even if it were not difficult just to limp from room to room, he cannot bear the thought of sitting in uncomfortable silence with his family. He feels drained and empty and tired. He needs to sleep.

Velorak finds him in the sun-room and reaches the same conclusion. He says he will make tea. When Spock politely declines the guard sets him a stern look and says, “I will make tea. And then you will rest.”

Spock relents. He still remembers sitting outside the Vulcan consulate as a child and meditating with Velorak – the older Vulcan prodding his thoughts this way and that, expanding his mind. Refusing him is almost as hard as facing Sarek.

The tea Velorak makes is very bitter. Spock does not comment. He longs for rest, but finds himself sitting down in an uncomfortable chair instead of retiring to his rooms. He stares down at the half-drained cup in his hands, unaccountably dizzy. His leg prickles with numbness.

His leg. Maybe he _should_ attend one of those appointments.

A few seconds later finds Spock staring at the ground. A puddle of tea trickles down the side of the chair. He realizes, belatedly, that he's hanging off the arm, blood rushing to his head. He should move.

He cannot.

“You are extremely stubborn,” says Velorak above him. A touch across his shoulders. Spock topples against the ground. The tea burns his arm, and his cheek stings from contact with the floor. “No matter. Your death will not be considered suspicious.”

.

.

And then everything gets very, very quiet for awhile.

Spock closes his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Spock is concerned by his father's looming mental instability and everyone is being very difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very tiny chapter, but it didn't feel right lumping it in with ch. 8

Several months ago Spock was temporarily blinded. He awoke in Sickbay, heavily disoriented, to find Dr. McCoy scowlingly inspecting his eyes inches away. It was a distinctly unpleasant way to regain awareness – but it was far preferable compared to realizing that Sarek sits scrutinizing his medical-chart across the room.

He definitely does not contemplate his chances of feigning sleep.

In any case, that option is removed when Sarek glances up and notices him awake.

Without speaking his father vanishes. The world fades in and out. It seems like only seconds later that Sarek returns with an old doctor at his side.

Vulcan tricorders have a much less irritating sound than the Starfleet variant.

“Commander Spock. Are you experiencing any chest-pain, confusion, or numbness?”

Only confusion about how he came to be here. “My left leg is entirely numb.”

The doctor stiffens. “ _That_ is expected,” he snaps. He stows the tricorder. “You will alert me to any changes; Ambassador Sarek has elected to explain your circumstances. A mind-healer will be with you shortly.”

This said, the doctor promptly leaves them alone. Vulcan physicians do not have a concept equivalent to the human 'bedside manner.'

Sarek possesses the effect of making any room uncomfortable. Here, pinned in a hospital bed under his father's unrelenting scrutiny, the effect is only amplified.

“I apologize for my negligence,” Sarek announces suddenly.

Spock tries, and fails, to understand. “You must be more precise.”

Sarek reaches out and, very gingerly, pats Spock on the arm.

Spock stares.

“I assumed that you would seek assistance if you continued to entertain dangerous thoughts after your Fever,” Sarek clarifies. “Clearly, I was incorrect.”

Spock cannot bring himself to focus on the words. Beneath the haze of painkillers, sedatives, and other drugs he can only focus on that hand on his arm. The light touch burns like a brand. Sharp wisps of worry-guilt-concern seeps through his skin, unhidden.

“But why are you here?” he has to ask. It comes out more subdued than he intends. Spock can't quite remember why he's in the hospital. Or why Sarek would be with him, rather than Amanda.

The drugs, no doubt, are causing this disorientation.

“Also, why are you touching me,” he has to ask. Because Sarek still hasn't taken his hand away.

“Your mother finds comfort from such gestures. And you are half-human.”

“Yet you have never done so before.”

A pause. That inexplicable grip shifts, tightens, and Spock holds his breath. “No,” Sarek admits.

Spock does not have the energy to sort through his father's bizarre descent into nostalgia. “Has Velorak been arrested?” he asks.

“...Velorak failed to appear for duty today. Why would he be arrested?”

“For my poisoning.”

The hand on his shoulder drops away.

“Velorak poisoned you.”

“Yes. I presume he overheard our earlier discussion and thought to make it appear self-inflicted.”

“He was successful.” Sarek's voice sounds a little more normal now, even if his eyes scan Spock carefully. “Though I did wonder that you would use a poison so ineffective against your human components. A Terran psychologist we consulted suggested that it may be a 'cry for attention.'”

“If I made another attempt I would not fail,” says Spock. No one has ever said he is incapable of learning.

Sarek leans over. Spock freezes with shock as his father's arms wrap around his shoulders in a strange, delicate parody of a hug.

“I will summon a mind-healer for you,” Sarek says against his ear. “ - And I will return this evening with Sub-Commander Terik.”

He does not await a reply, which is good; Spock stares at the door with frozen horror as he leaves.

Sarek has, quite clearly, gone insane during his convalescence. Hopefully it is only a temporary psychosis resulting from his mother's condition; Amanda will be greatly distraught to find her husband so changed.

* * *

Healer T'Les is a tiny, thin-boned woman with bright and penetrating eyes. Were he able to stand Spock would have to bend over to talk with her; as it is, she positions herself solidly at his bedside, dark brown hair glinting in the artificial lights. She says that their session today will be merely a preliminary assessment, “provided that you do not require emergency intervention.”

She asks permission to see his mind. Spock grants it.

The healer's professional touch is very unlike the chaotic meld with his father. In that merging Spock and Sarek lost all distinctions. Here it is as though a glass wall separates Spock from the healer's search. He can feel her peeling through his memories, cataloging his weaknesses and concerns - but he is deaf to her opinion of it all. A reasonable precaution in a mind-healer, but unnerving.

Like Sarek she pauses over a few memories in particular. Asking his mother why she kissed his cheek each morning. She says _this is how you know someone loves you._ Counterimposed – his father, clasping hands behind his back to avoid contact.

Sybok: _No one on this planet cares about anyone else – why would you_ want _to be like us?_

Medical doctors declaring him an imperfect specimen. It is true, but it stings.

An instructor saying that he must _rid himself_ of emotion, utterly, or else succumb to his human weaknesses. He will never master control, so he must make himself empty instead. There must be nothing left to distract him.

And finally a more recent memory. The captain, above Omicron Delta, calling him _mongrel_ and _half-breed._ It is all part of a plan, but later Spock marvels over how the words pierced. It is not right to let himself care so deeply. He must excise these emotions, these weaknesses. He must have control. And then it will not matter if his dearest friend secretly scorns him; if maybe Dr. McCoy really does believe every bitter insult. It will not matter if all the humans he will ever meet secretly resent him.

He is above such considerations. He does not possess any emotional regard to them, just as they fail to care for Spock. Which is fine. He has his work, at the end of things, and he will prove himself successful through scientific innovation until, inevitably, it kills him.

...As the meld ends Spock wonders if something has gone amiss. Those are not his thoughts, surely.

T'Les looks at him like she knows what he is thinking. Maybe she does. “There is much work to be done,” she says simply. “I must contemplated what I have seen. I will return tomorrow to begin your treatment. When I arrive, I expect you to be able to tell me Surak's most important teaching.”

* * *

After the session, Spock sleeps.

He must. Sometimes he thinks – with a rush of bewilderment – that he is clearly dreaming. There is no other reason for the colorful whirls of light blossoming behind his eyes, the blur between night and day. There is no other reason to account for the fleeting presence of Sarek at his side, repeatedly vanishing and materializing from the darkness.

But eventually he wakes. The same grim healer from before informs him that he was deeply feverish, that his leg became infected “due to your neglect of timely and reasonable treatments, Commander.”

They keep his leg swathed in bandages now. Utterly useless. The doctor says it will help prevent careless damage. Regardless, he is now coherent enough to receive a visit from Sub-Comamnder Terik.

On their first visit Spock looked at this woman and tried to assess her ability as an investigator. Now, left convalescing and swathed with bandages in a biobed, Spock acknowledges that it may have been best for her to deny his offer of assistance.

She begins the interrogation by requesting a detailed accounting of the past several days. He takes special care to describe Velorak's solicitous attempts to isolate him – in retrospect, clearly ill-intentioned – and his insistent offers of tea. Spock had found none of it strange when his old guard brought him a drink before nightfall.

Sub-Commander Terik makes a note. “Then you will confirm that this poison was delivered to you involuntarily?”

Spock hesitates. That is – an unusual way to phrase the question. “Of course.”

The officer pauses. “I should clarify, Commander Spock. We have spoken to a Dr. McCoy, from your ship; he informed us of your recent suicide attempt. I must ask if you had any complicity in your poisoning.”

“I did not. I was unaware the tea was tainted.”

He thinks of saying, _and I am not suicidal._ But he imagines the look Terik would give him – cool and calm and sharp – and the words will not come.

Vulcans will not believe other Vulcans if they claim they cannot lie.

Terik writes another note. Spock closes his eyes.

“Please provide a complete accounting of your time in the house after Ambassador Sarek exited.”

Spock does so. He does not wish to think of Sarek discovering him, but it cannot be avoided. Inexplicably he remembers McCoy's angry voice - _“Jim found you, you know.”_

Illogical.

The fact that Dr. McCoy has been contacted – this is something he should have expected. His hysterical human colleague may well have messaged Vulcan authorities himself, if Spock failed to respond to his transmissions.

After all details are collected, Terik finishes by asking him detailed questions about Velorak's personal life; evidently her taskforce has not been able to find him. In this area Spock can provide no assistance. No, he knows of no mental maladies or odd behavior. Velorak is beholden to no larger clan except Spock's own; his mother was a space-merchant, now two years dead, and an only child; he has no recorded father, which among Vulcan society usually implies a _pon farr-_ gone-awry. Spock has not spoken with Velorak in years, and can offer no details about his recent habits.

At the end of the meeting Terik stands. “Your testimony is, of course, corroborated by your mother's description of her attacker - “

“She is awake?” Spock demands.

“Yes. She regained consciousness yesterday.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock spends a lot of time in hospitals, a rare Vulcan fuckboy appears, and Velorak is a nuisance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear he's returning to the Enterprise soon :/

“There you are,” says Amanda when Spock enters the room. Her smile is strained and a bit tired, but warm. “I was starting to think you weren't going to visit! Or that you'd run back to Starfleet again.”

Spock sits down, carefully stretching out his leg. For all of his recent experience with humans it remains impossible to say whether her tone is teasing or bitter. “I have been recovering,” he says briefly. This should be evident enough; he balances his newest cane to lean against the wall. Now that the treatments have begun, he hopefully can do without such aids in a few days. His physician has already vetoed bionic leg supports as being stressful and 'enabling.' “Are you improving adequately?”

“Well, I'm alive,” Amanda agrees. “Let me take a look at you, Spock. It's been years since we've spoken outside a screen...”

Spock ignores a shiver as she pats his hand. Amanda has never cared much for Vulcan boundaries. He always found it odd, how she and Sarek differ in that.

And perhaps it is odd, also, that this contact she offers so willingly is difficult to endure. Yet Sarek's awkward attempt at comfort still lingers – a shadow of a mind furtive and careful, much like Jim had been at first even when Spock made it explicitly clear that he did not mind the captain's tactile nature.

Perhaps he should meditate on this discrepancy.

“I have offered to visit,” Spock reminds her.

“Oh, yes. On _Earth,_ or Tellar, or during my holidays on Risa – but never Vulcan. There's really no point if we can't _all_ be together. As a family, Spock.”

He thinks of her years trailing behind Sarek, shuttled from one world to another without reaching out. “Perhaps our definition of the word differs.”

“You're just like your father – always so pedantic! But, nevermind. I know you have a hard time figuring out what's appropriate. Have you actually spoken to Sarek since you've arrived?”

“Yes. Surely father mentioned that.”

“Well, you know,” Amanda says. Spock does not know. “And obviously these aren't the best circumstances. But you must enjoy being home, anyway, after so long on a human ship.”

It _is_ somewhat relaxing to be surrounded by calm, shielded minds. Not to mention people who behave in predictable patterns. Yet something in her phrasing makes Spock hesitate. “I do not understand why you make that distinction.”

Amanda pats his hand again, still smiling. “Well, it's not as though you'll fit in among humans, dear. But it's nice to see you trying.”

* * *

“I do not see the need for this session,” Spock says.

The offices of most mind-healers tend to be closed and small. Medical facilities are built with thick walls and dull, calming colors. Vulcans are a private people, usually more comfortable sharing their emotions only when the utmost discretion is guaranteed.

Healer T'Les has a window. And a small trellis with ruby-colored plants curling waxy leaves toward distant slants of sunlight.

Spock can't stop looking at it.

“I understand that you intend to exit the hospital against medical advice.”

“My father requires assistance with the Faurin. They have demanded my presence.”

“But Ambassador Sarek does not request your aid?”

True. “That does not mean it is not beneficial.”

T'Les leans back. “You understand, of course, why your health team might have serious concerns if you seem to be neglecting your health. You will continue attending these sessions for the duration of your stay on Vulcan.”

_Or risk being labeled mad, and forced to attend,_ she is too polite to say. They would use a different diagnosis, but the result would be unchanged. Spock finds himself tensed as though preparing for a fight.

He could probably escape a mental health institution, even on Vulcan. But that would create more problems than it would solve.

His silence is enough concession. T'Les folds her hands together and leans back.

Outside the window a bird flits by. Such an open room is disruptive to contemplation. So why -

“Have you considered my question?” T'Les asks him.

It takes a moment to remember. “You asked me to recall Surak's most important philosophical teachings.” An elementary task, if a bit subjective. “I would make an argument for one of his instructions on social ethics. Easily summarized, 'The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few – or the one.'”

“I would not consider that Surak's most important teaching,” says T'Les immediately. “Although your choice does not surprise me, Commander.”

He waits for her to elaborate. Instead, she changes tack entirely.

“We have conversed only a short time,” says T'Les, still neat and prim and proper. Just looking at her blank face and ramrod-straight posture makes him aware of how much his Disciplines have loosened in his years off-world. “However, while melding with you I discovered a disturbing pattern that should be brought to your attention.”

“Very well,” says Spock. It is always hard to recall details from a meld; he cannot fathom her intentions here, and that is frustrating.

T'Les continues. “You take offense where none is given. Especially when you are speaking to those whose opinions most matters to you.”

“That is untrue.”

“I have already located two-hundred fifty-one such incidents in your memories where you specifically projected imagined insults into your father's words. Doubtlessly you have misinterpreted others as well, but many of your more unusual paths of logic seem rooted in childhood events.

Spock tries and fails to speak. Clearing his throat, he addresses one of the most obvious flaws in her statement. “My father does not insult me; he only ever corrects my logic.” T'Les makes no response. “And I disagree with your observations.”

“There is no easy way to convince you,” T'Les informs him. She seems unbothered by his objections. “But I will ask you to engage in an experiment whenever you believe that someone disagrees with your logic, behavior, or actions. Pose yourself a series of questions. Imagine yourself in the place of the individual you converse with. Try to determine a logical motive for their words that does _not_ cast aspersions on your character.”

Such mental exercises are for children. But Spock is aware that he must cooperate – otherwise his entire career is at risk. “Very well.”

“Then for the moment our session is concluded. I expect you to return in two days after your next treatment with the osteogenerator.”

They have not even melded today, so Spock cannot understand how this short meeting can have given her any information about his mental status. But he is not inclined to argue.

As she rises to leave, he reminds T'Les of her earlier words. “Healer. In your opinion, what is the most important of Surak's teachings?”

She glances back at him and gives a faint nod – like a teacher commending a student's insight. “That logic is the _beginning_ of wisdom. Not the end.”

Spock glances around at the room's pale yellow walls. The swaying red leaves outside the sunny window, moving under a hot breeze. Aesthetically pleasing, but otherwise meaningless. “This is not your usual office,” he says. Because there is so much more she is compromising.

“No. It is not.”

* * *

  
“Your presence here is unnecessary,” says Sarek for third time. “While the Faurin will appreciate your presence, it would be more logical for you to use this time to rest.”

“We are not undergoing any strenuous activity,” Spock points out. And this, he feels, is true; compared to the previous few days he is perfectly well, and his leg only throbs a little as he limps across the courtyard near the Department of Diplomatic Affairs.

Sarek eyes Spock as though deciding whether to argue. But before he can speak, a voice calls, “Ambassador!”

They both turn. The shout originated from a young messenger in the pale blue robes and high collar that marks him as an administrative worker posted to one of the High Council's many subcommittees. “Your presence is requested at once by the Lady T'Pau,” the messenger says.

“Both of us?” asks Sarek.

“Only you were specified, Ambassador.”

Sarek glances in the direction of the Department offices. But only briefly; T'Pau would understand a delay in an emergency, but it is best not to keep a Vulcan matriarch waiting. “I have missed enough developments with the Faurin; wait here, and we will greet them together,” he instructs Spock. Then he leaves without looking back.

Though he disagrees with Sarek's logic, Spock gladly finds a seat on a winding stone fence outlining a well-tended garden in the open courtyard. On some planets locations near the heart of planetary statesmanship would be closely guarded. Here, parents walk with children through desert-blooming bushes, or sit meditating under spindly, hard-leafed trees. Outside the courtyard a steady stream of officials rush to and fro. He recognizes a myriad of species among them: Human, Caitian, Graazarite, Deltan.

Some distance away Spock observes a young Vulcan child, just two or three, reach out to touch a fist-sized yellow beetle trundling across the ground. It quickly skitters up her arm, then atop her head. Unafraid, the girl spins in dizzying circles trying to look at it until a man reaches out to halt her.

Presumably the girl's father. The older Vulcan's lips twitch for a moment as he surveys the dazed girl. He plucks up the insect and holds it out for her perusal.

Then they move on. But Spock keeps thinking of them – especially that tiny, half-hidden smile.

Spock left Vulcan when he was very young. Too young, perhaps, to have a full and mature understanding of his own people.

The thought is new. And disconcerting.

Three other Vulcans sit down nearby on the long stone ledge. They converse quietly, and Spock politely ignores their conversation until the male beside him turns. “I have not made your acquaintance; are you a traveler?”

An inane question; ShiKahr is a very large province, and a diplomatic center besides. This stranger cannot expect to know everyone. “I am not.”

Undeterred, the unfamiliar Vulcan shifts to face Spock fully. They are probably about the same age – both very young by local standards. “I am Nirak,” the stranger offers. Spock nods and does not offer his name, wondering why this man speaks to him. On Nirak's other side his two companions – both women – glance at Spock and bow their heads to converse quietly. For the second time that day, Spock sees a member of his race twitch their lips in the faintest semblance of a smile.

Nirak asks his name, so he is forced to provide it after all. The oddly chatty stranger than finds it necessary to wax poetic about the courtyard's native fauna, lingering over the beauty and rarity of each plant.

Perplexing. Also, unnecessary; Spock is an expert in botany, as in many scientific fields. “Are you a tour-guide?” he asks after several minutes of this, finding it the only possible explanation.

One of the woman turns her face away, lifting a hand to her lips.

“...No,” says Narik. Then, shaking his head, he leans forward. “But perhaps we could take a walk around the gardens nonetheless.”

Spock mutely lifts his cane. Now the other woman isn't looking at them, either.

Narik's ears appear to burn under the midday sun; Spock politely neglects to mention it. “Then we can make arrangements for another time,” he persists, and reaches out.

At the first brush of skin Spock stiffens. It is only the lightest, most cautious contact – Narik's smallest finger brushing over his knuckle. But an equally-soft mind-touch probes for compatibility, and there can be no mistake; Narik is flirting with him.

Spock does not respond. But he does not pull away, either.

“...or perhaps we might meet at a later time?” Narik offers, hesitant.

Somehow, in all the events since his _pon farr,_ Spock entirely overlooked the fact that he is now a sexually-mature member of his species. He stares at their connecting fingers, at a loss.

“Excuse me; we must depart.”

Spock jolts away as Sarek steps next to him. “Of course, Father,” he says automatically. Narik must recognize the ambassador, because he shrinks under Sarek's quick, dismissive glance.

As they walk away Spock glances back. One of the woman makes a solemn gesture with her hand, saying something; it is the same ceremonial motion used to convey sympathy with one grieving a death.

The gesture Narik makes in turn is far less polite.

Sarek does not comment on his gross indiscretion. But Spock remains aware of it anyway. “I apologize for that display,” he says abruptly.

“You are an adult,” Sarek dismisses.

Spock is an adult; he should be more aware. He should control himself better.

And then – for some reason, he recalls T'Les' reprimand. Put yourself in another person's position. Try to imagine another motive for critical words.

Spock is an adult. He should know better than to engage in indecent public conversations. But if Sarek had viewed such a scene when Spock was a teenager, he _would_ have intervened. Not because of Spock's poor conduct, but because of his youth. That reason no longer applies.

If Spock saw a younger crewman flirting with a stranger, he would not consider it indecent. Adults have the freedom to engage in temporary liaisons if they wish.

_You are an adult,_ Sarek said. And the other Vulcans clearly saw nothing ugly about the exchange.

...is Spock truly imagining slights where none exist? The thought troubles him during the rest of the walk to the offices.

* * *

The Faurin don't bat an eye at Sarek's unexpected return, but they assess Spock's worsened limp with considerably more skepticism.

“We understand the reason for these delays,” says Ambassador Krydare. “ - Clearly, Vulcan is not as peaceful a planet as people say.”

This sets the tone for the rest of the meeting.

Spock's part now is small, but he is able to answer questions about Starfleet and the Federation's protective measures with more insight than his father, until Sarek simply starts gesturing for Spock to take the lead. But neither of their efforts seem to convince the Faurin that joining the Federation would benefit them. “How can we join a government that deceives us?” Krydare questions. “Even now, at the very start of negotiations, one of your people entrusted with our lands and trade has proven capable of cowardly violence.”

Sarek requests clarification. “That man Velorak, of course,” Krydare snorts. “He is one of the few Vulcans permitted dilithium mining rights with our planet.”

* * *

“None of this makes sense – Vulcans don't murder because of greed,” Amanda protests when she hears the news. “And Velorak... he's served the family since before you were born, Spock.”

“Evidently he found the prospect of wealth and power off-world to be more tempting,” Spock counters. Although he is inclined to agree with her; Spock's service in Starfleet has accustomed him to the uglier aspects of people's natures, but it is hard to understand Velorak's motives. The man is already gaining wealth through is agreement with the Faurin. What reason would he have to kill Amanda, or Spock?

“I still can't believe it... and your father is reporting all this? Well, of course he is. I'm sure this isn't the homecoming you expected, sweetheart. And this is supposed to be your vacation!”

“I have never taken a 'vacation,' Mother. I am on medical leave.”

“Yes – but don't try to trick me! Your leg isn't hurt that bad if you're _still_ working. You can just say if you wanted to visit your home, Spock.”

Spock says nothing.

“Of course I know you never liked Velorak much. So at least we weren't betrayed by Stellan or one of the guards we know better - “

“Why do you presume to know my thoughts?” Spock interrupts.

He tries to remember T'Les' instructions. But here his imagination fails him; Spock cannot imagine any reason for Amanda's stream of presumptions, except the all-too-real possibility that she refuses to see him.

Humans excel at self-delusion.

Spock would know.

His protest surprises her. “I'm your mother, Spock – I know you better than you know yourself.”

“When I was younger,” says Spock, “Velorak would meditate with me outside father's office. He taught me to recognize the difference species of spiders by our summer property in the L'Lesa province. I once stayed with Velorak and his mother for three nights when you and Father were off-world.”

“Oh, Spock. I don't mean to say you can't feel sad - “

“You are not listening.”

Amanda purses her lips and squints at him; she hates being interrupted. “I am listening. But I'm no mind-reader – you have to say what you mean.”

“There is little point,” Spock tells her, “When you will choose to divest from my words any meaning that suits you.”

Amanda is silent for a long moment. “I'm sorry. I suppose I'm always looking for subtext on this planet – but it seems like I still have a lot to learn about Vulcans. Maybe I do make too many assumptions.”

Caught off-guard, Spock searches for a reply.

“But don't think you can get away with that tone just because your leg is making you grumpy,” Amanda scolds.

“ - Excuse me, Mother. I believe it is time that I leave.”

* * *

Spock knows that his father is not in the house, but he enters quietly anyway, feeling as always like an intruder under the familiar, dark stones bearing down from these childhood halls. Stellan is stationed at the front alone – which is entirely contradictory to protocol. Spock doesn't comment on the fact that Stellan evidently still needs a new shift-mate.

Though his doctors had let Spock go only under a dozen warnings to rest, he finds himself heading for Sarek's study. His business should not last long, and the ambassador's computer will cut through the usual restrictions against long-distance communications with much more ease than going through the home network. Though Spock has gained familiarity with the office these past few days while rifling through the Faurin files, somehow it still seems illicit to be here now. Even if Sarek probably wouldn't care.

Illogical. In any case this is better than testing his legs against the stairs. Spock enters a transmission to the _Enterprise_ before he can reconsider.

Captain Kirk accepts the call with almost alarming speed considering he should on bridge-duty. The screen shows Spock the expected view of the briefing room off the bridge. Less expected, Captain Kirk stands in front of the screen oddly disheveled and covered in –

Dirt?

“My apologies, Captain. If this is not an opportune moment for a call - “

“No! No, it's fine. We've just had a... minor breach in the labs... but never mind that. Spock, the Vulcans told us you were hospitalized?”

“I am unsurprised you were not informed of the details – there is an ongoing investigation.” He explains his poisoning, as well as Velorak's assumed motives.”

Considering that they're discussing a murder attempt – two murder attempts – Kirk takes the news well. In fact he sags back with relief, tension dropping from his shoulders. Along with clumps of dirt. “Good,” he says, after Spock relates how he was found unconscious after drinking poorly-poisoned tea.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “Good?” he echoes.

Kirk reddens. “Not good that you were hurt, of course. But we assumed – well. You know.”

Someone enters the briefing room before Kirk can explain.

“Vulcan,” McCoy spits, stomping up to shake his finger at the screen, “Is a planet with the most backwards, barbaric view of medicine I've ever seen in a 'modern' world - “

“Dr. McCoy - “

“I'm counting _Qonos,_ do you understand me? I mean, I've never been there – but even the damn Klingons know you can't just shut off emotions. Honestly it's a damn mystery that more of your people don't go off the deep end - “

“That is extremely speciest, Doctor.”

McCoy jabs a hand at the screen, ignoring Kirk's half-hearted attempts to tug him into a chair. “It was a mistake sending you there. Listen, ignore whatever logical cultic nonsense they're trying to feed you. I can get you a transfer to an Earth hospital by tomorrow - “

“Sub-Commander Terik may object to that.”

“And just who the hell - !“

“She is leading the investigation into my attempted murder.”

McCoy pauses. “Attempted...?”

The doctor looks at Spock. At Kirk.

He smacks Kirk's restraining hand away, and bursts, “Well why the hell didn't you say so earlier!”

Kirk scrubs at his ear. “When was he meant to do that,” comes the dry question. “Before you insulted his entire species, or after I went deaf?”

He receives only a rude gesture in reply.

“ _Anyway_ ,” says Kirk. “We're _both_ glad you're alright – for some definition of the word. How's your mother, anyway?“

Spock fields a few more tedious questions on his health; he expects McCoy will experience a few more outbursts if he tries to ask after the science department. When the door to the study opens Spock is resigned. It was inevitable that Sarek would return to question him, but he had hoped for more time before this conversation -

He looks up to see Velorak frozen in the doorway. Remembers, abruptly, that Sarek is at an appointment with T'Pau and won't return for hours. Since Spock checked himself out against advice, anyone would logically expect the house to be empty.

Velorak holds an empty box in one hand. In the other, a portable data-tube.

Spock stands. Velorak drops his burdens to the ground.

“Spock?” calls a muffled voice from the computer's speakers.

As a guardsman with more than seven decades of experience, Velorak's speed should be no surprise. Even as Spock automatically dodges the man's lunge he realizes his own error: Velorak crashes into the sleek computer console, breaking the display and sending the video-message into flickering darkness.

Spock cannot imagine _why_ Velorak would return to the scene of his crimes, much less break in to infiltrate Sarek's office. But he is here, now, so the point is moot.

Sarek has a very minimalist taste in décor – something frustrates Spock as he stumbles across the empty room with no cover. There is only one door. When Velorak spins he blocks a punch with his upraised cane, staggering. Barely dodges a kick. With Starfleet training he'd usually be able to hold his own, but every strike sends jarring shocks down his spine. If he could just reach the door, sound an alarm -

Of course, there's one more option. When Velorak lunges this time – shoving aside his upraised cane almost contemptuously – Spock reaches out and manages to skim their palms together. He shouts soundlessly, wordlessly – a mental scream intended to rattle Velorak for at least a few seconds.

It works better than he expected. His mind shreds through Velorak's as though there is no resistance. Velorak always did have terrible shields, and somehow the thought seems important.

The door opens even as Velorak falls forward. Clouded confusion shrouds the next seconds – Spock is only aware of an echoing sense of Velorak's pain, his rage, and then a bizarre and confusing sense of kicking-and-being-kicked. Their minds are still linked, so Velorak shouts in pain even as Spock's already-injured leg snaps under him. Spock barely notices; instead he finds himself staring at Stellan, who stands poised in the entrance like a grim sentinel.

All Spock can recall is Stellan adjusting his grip on the lirpa. Walking him home between classes music lessons, when classmates were especially harsh. Is he outnumbered now? Spock tries to back away. He only manages to crumple to the ground when his leg gives out beneath him.

Then Stellan brings out a phaser and shoots Velorak straight in the chest.

* * *

After the heavily-disapproving physician has left them, Sarek updates Spock on the results of the investigation.

There isn't much.

“Naturally it is fortuitous to have Velorak in custody,” says Sarek, ignoring the _circumstances_ of that ignominious arrest, “but we are no closer to discovering his motivations. Velorak will not speak, and Sub-Commander Terik is reluctant to impose an involuntary meld, as he has not actually succeeded in killing anyone.”

For reasons of their own the resident doctors have situated Spock in one of the windowed rooms used for off-worlders; he is unsure if this is meant to be rude or accommodating. Outside Spock sees Stellan's back facing them, the guard's posture straight and tense.

These past days have been stressful for everyone involved.

“Of course,” Sarek continues, drawing back his attention, “We cannot yet rule out the possibility of medical insanity.”

Spock raises an eyebrow, pushing himself straight in the confined biobed. His now-splinted leg barely aches; he has spent far too much of this 'leave' in hospital beds. “Surely he was too well-organized to be mentally unsound.”

“Nevertheless, the possibility must be investigated. His doctors inform me that Velorak's bloodwork is – unusual. Almost as complex as your own.”

They both politely ignore the fact that Sarek should not have access to such medical records. “Interesting. I would like to examine them.”

Sarek agrees and brings him the reports. As Spock peruses the records, Sarek asks, “I do not suppose Velorak gave you any hint of what he sought to find in my office? We did notice that the computer had been damaged.”

Spock pauses over a detailed analysis of Velorak's genetic code. Chagrined, he replies, “That...was not his original intention.”

He hopes that the doctors will not object to him placing a call - again.

But first, he has an appointment.

* * *

“I believe we should discuss Velorak.”

Spock grips his cup of tea and watches wisps of steam rise from the surface. He does not ask how T'Ves knows the name; Velorak's trial will judge the first cases of attempted murder committed by a Vulcan in the past 78 years.

Instead he says, “I cannot see how that would be relevant to the issue at hand.”

“It is my duty to help you identify and amend unhealthy patterns of thinking,” T'Ves point out. “This Velorak was a significant figure in your childhood; surely it is reasonable to discuss how such a diseased man would influence you.”

Logical. If unpleasant.

“Do you have reason to believe that Velorak tampered with my thoughts?” asks Spock.

“Not overtly. But he may have been more – subtle. Can you recall any instances, for example, where Velorak may have encouraged you to alter your behavior? Or discouraged you, as the case may be.”

Unbidden, a memory. Velorak asking Spock, age nine, why he was taking a circuitous route home. Spock explained that an older male had expressed a casual interest in the idea of dragging Spock out to the desert and leaving him there alone – an ancient test of strength the other student was certain he would fail. Spock was taking a new route for the sake of safety.

Velorak nodded. He offered to help Spock practice his nerve-pinch; Spock had already mastered the technique, so he declined. Nothing else ever came of the incident, and the older student grew bored of threatening Spock a few weeks later.

But that was not a meld. “I cannot.”

T'Les eyes him. “We will revisit the matter, perhaps. I also imagine that attention from law enforcement may be causing ongoing stress?”

“I have not yet been required to submit a complete statement,” Spock says. Supposedly under grounds that doing so would cause _unnecessary psychological strain._ As though he were not a Vulcan, and a Starfleet officer; he has has survived many murder attempts. “As you are well aware.”

But when he says as much T'Les only remarks, idly, that the Enterprise could use a good counselor, and does he think the CMO would appreciate a recommendation? That Dr. McCoy seemed quite eager to cooperate with her suggestions.

Spock will never understand how McCoy manages to leave such a good impression on other Vulcans. It's maddening.

“You may also choose to make a statement on the physicians Sokel and Kallas before you leave Vulcan,” T'Les adds. “And the educators T'Shir, T'Vel, and Laorak.”

It takes Spock a moment to recognize the names. “My teachers from childhood,” he realizes. “And two researchers who consulted on my genetic abnormalities – why would I need to provide a statement about them?”

“Because I have reported them for ethical malpractice,” says T'Les without inflection. “As their crimes occurred when you were a child, I am legally obligated to do so. The investigation will, of course, proceed without your involvement – but you may choose to be involved if you wish.”

The implications are obvious. “If any of their behavior was inappropriate,” Spock tells her slowly, “They would have been reprimanded years ago.”

“Perhaps. I suggest you pay attention to the progress of the case, whether or not you choose to be actively involved.”

As is usual, T'Les proceeds to ask about his recent days, lingering several times over relatively minor details that seem insignificant to Spock. She is _very_ interested in his encounter with the flirtatious Vulcan, but he refuses to discuss any revelations about his new sexual maturity with this tiny old woman.

Then, for the first time, T'Les asks him about Starfleet. More specifically, she wants to know why he left Vulcan.

Spock gives his standard answer – explains that the greatest scientific innovations are found in exploring new regions of space, and new civilizations. On a starship he is at the forefront of scientific advancement. Work at a research post could not compare.

She listens to this spiel without any change of expression. When Spock finishes she asks, “Why a human ship?”

A pause. “I am of course, half-human.”

“Yes. So you could have worked on an independent Vulcan ship – but you chose otherwise. Why humans?”

The question has been posed before. but he expects T'Les will not be satisfied by another rote response. “I hoped to experience something different,” he finds himself saying. And this answer is still defensible, until he adds, “I wished to see if humanity was different.”

Surprisingly T'Les does not ask him to elaborate. Her only question: “And were they?”

Spock thinks of the mocking woman in the park. The twitch of a smile on a father watching his daughter investigate the world.

Velorak, trying to kill him. Though if Spock's suspicions are correct -

“I do not know,” he confesses.


	9. Chapter 9

“Spock, I swear to god, you are never taking leave again.”

“That seems contradictory to your usual recommendations, Doctor.”

“You know what? You're right. We should take our next shore leave together. I'll bring you down to Georgia, show you a proper hogtie, and set you in the garden to rest that chlorophyll-laced blood of yours in the garden with the tomatoes.”

“...Your misconceptions about Vulcan physiology have reached alarming proportions.”

“And yet, you'd still probably end up healthier than you have after taking leave on Vulcan.”

Kirk sighs and waves his hand between McCoy and the screen, as though trying to swipe away the argument. “Spock. How long until you can return to duty?”

“I have been informed that my leg is healing slower than expected.”

“Well, gee,” snips McCoy. “Wonder why. It's a goddamn Vulcan mystery.”

“ _Bones._ Spock, take as long as you need. We'll be coming fairly close to Vulcan in about four weeks. If you can't come aboard then, you'll either need to wait until we're back around three weeks after _that,_ or take a shuttle to come meet us. I'll send you the planned route.”

“Understood.”

“In the meantime - “

“Captain,” Spock interrupts. “Is there any particular reason you are both covered in dirt?”

Because they are. As was the case during his previous vid-call to the _Enterprise,_ Kirk's shoulders are dusted with a fine layer of earth. Even McCoy, though generally cleaner, has a brown splotch smeared over the shoulder of his uniform.

Kirk and McCoy exchange glances. “...Don't worry about that,” Kirk says. “We're, ah, dealing with it.”

“And don't try to change the subject,” McCoy adds. “I ain't done yelling at you yet.”

The doctor has not, in fact, yelled at all. “There is no further reason to discuss my condition, Doctor McCoy. Despite the unfortunate circumstances of this visit, I expect I will heal adequately enough to return to the _Enterprise_ at the earliest - “

“You're still recovering from being _poisoned,_ Spock. Not to mention, oh, the whole fatigue and malnutrition your doctor noted - “

“Velorak's choice of poison was poorly chosen for my unique physiology. It would have killed a full Vulcan, but fortunately, no lasting harm has resulted.”

For some reason this does not seem to comfort the doctor. “Georgia,” McCoy repeats to Kirk. “Tie him down the garden. Vulcans like the heat. I'll pour a little water on his head every now and then, he'll be fine.”

“Well, I think that's considered torture on Earth, Bones. And everywhere else.”

Spock ignores this illogical aside. “Dr. McCoy. I did have a request for you.” McCoy squints suspiciously. “Would you be willing to overlook a medical file for me?”

“What, you don't trust the doctors there?”

“That is not the concern – and the file is not mine.” Spock does not care to inform McCoy that he trusts the CMO's analysis more than that of his Vulcan doctors; the human's smugness would be unbearable. “I am merely looking for a – second opinion.”

“Well... alright, sure. Send it along. What exactly am I looking for?”

“I would prefer to see if you reach the same conclusions without the bias of such information.”

McCoy grumbles under his breath about _damn cryptic Vulcans._ “Fine, fine. At least it will give me something to do while the medical lab is being sterilized, _again._ ”

A piece of dirt slowly falls from his shirt.

* * *

“Perhaps we should sit down for a moment,” Stellan suggests.

Normally, Spock might refuse. But it's the third time Stellan has tried to prod him into resting – and they happen to be walking through a sprawling conservation-garden currently occupied by amateur musicians. Drifts of music – some skilled, some not – come from every corner of the scraggly desert field, with quiet crowds walking back and forth to listen.

Still. “The physician said at least forty minutes of physical activity would be ideal - “

“ - but that you should rest if you become tired, and refrain from straining your leg,” Stellan interrupts. “You have begun to sweat.”

Which is true. A very inconvenient physical response. Spock concedes to the inevitable and follows Stellan to an unobtrusive stone bench placed near a cluster of cacti.

The nearest musician is not very good, but does sound oddly familiar. Spock tilts his head to listen and eventually notices Stellan watching him.

Not that such behavior is strange, these days. Stellan has become excessively careful since Velorak's break-in, so Spock only pays attention when he starts to speak.

“Perhaps it is not my place to say this,” begins Stellan, who has always served his post in dutiful complicity. “I do not intend to overstep – but I believe it would be inappropriate not to express my thoughts.”

Despite this, Stellan pauses. “Speak freely,” Spock offers, aware of the sudden solemnity in Stellan's voice – one much at odds with the courtyard around them. The music from the amateur lyrist shifts into a lilting hymn. “You have honored my family with service before I was born; I value your advice.”

“But do you value your father?” asks Stellan.

The question is unexpected as it is baffling. “All children value their parents.'

“Yet you continue to concern him without need,” Stellan counters.

“Concern would indicate an emotional reaction.”

“Yes.” A beat: “Perhaps it is because you simply do not value yourself.”

After his own declaration Spock can hardly reprimand the guard. He clasps his hands together, scanning through the scattered crowds to find the player of that strange music – now an unusually upbeat melody, accompanied by a quiet pair of lutes.

Stellan tells him, “I often invited Velorak to dine with my family. In more than forty years of acquaintance, he only accepted twice.”

Spock – unsure what response is expected of him – opts for the failsafe that usually works with humans: nodding as though he understands. Scanning the park, he finally finds the lyrist.

A woman. She wears bright purple robes, a silver sash, and glittering sandals. Spock is unsure how he failed to notice her before, unless he automatically skimmed over the performer as a non-Vulcan. Which is inaccurate. She's quite clearly Vulcan; she also smiles as she performs, cheerfully weaving around two stoic-faced companions.

Not old enough for senility. _V'tosh ka'tur,_ then.

She looks – comfortable.

“He always said my offers were gracious,” says Stellan, referring back to Velorak. Across the park the woman continues to dance; some people watch, but only as anyone might watch a performer. “But Velorak insisted he did not want to 'impose' on my family. I now reflect that I should have pressed the matter.”

“Despite his choices?”

“Because of his choices. I find it difficult to imagine that Velorak has always been a malicious individual – but he was undoubtedly troubled.”

Spock faces the guard. “You believe I am going to end up like Velorak?” he wonders.

“No. But I do think that, like him, you isolate yourself. It is not necessary – it is not sustainable.”

Yet the situations are not alike, Spock knows. He _does_ have connections – such as those with his companions on the Enterprise.

He thinks of the dozens of ignored messages in his inbox. An unpleasant sensation rises in his chest, hastily compressed.

And of course, in an important way Spock _is_ like Velorak – though this, Stellan probably does not understand.

* * *

When Spock was a teenager he often went alone into Vulcan's forge – the hottest, driest desert on Vulcan, populated with lethal lematya, dozens of venomous snakes, and creeping _eskaya_ – the last being a burrowing mammal that could come up and drag travelers under the shifting sands before they understood what was happening.

Sarek scolded him, argued with him, and finally outright forbid him from those excursions. Spock went anyway. The danger never bothered him. On one occasion he saw a pair of lematya and trailed them back to their cave. One of the two noticed him, but they must have eaten recently; the big cats just lay down and dozed, watching him through hooded eyes until Spock left.

When he thinks of visiting the forge now he hears McCoy's voice, as though the doctor were right beside him: _Do you have a deathwish, Spock?_

Maybe that was the answer all along. And maybe Sarek was right to be uneasy about his son's behavior.

It is not simple, accepting these conclusions. But Spock has always believed in the necessity of truth. It is illogical to keep lying to himself when reality is patently evident.

He did want to die. He is not sure what he wants now. This trip challenges many long-standing beliefs. The fact does not change his desires. But it does alter his resolve. For years he has been unable to change, but if so much of his perspective has been in error, perhaps the future can be better – despite all experience to the contrary.

He meditates that night for hours – Stellan comes inside to check on him several times, but must be satisfied that this counts as rest, because he never interrupts. Sarek remains at the hospital. Spock does not stand until the early hours of morning, his knees cracking as he moves around under the dim light peering through the house's ancient glass windows.

He doesn't feel like sleeping yet – Spock slept quite enough during his own most recent hospital visit. Instead he finds himself moving to Sarek's office.

The signs of the struggle with Velorak have already been cleared away. The broken computer is, of course, absent; otherwise the room is neat and tidy. Spock supposes there wasn't any damage. Velorak had not expected a fight, and carried no phaser. Just the empty data-rod, already checked by Terik, and...

Hadn't he been holding a box?

An empty box. Spock frowns, unease coiling up his spine. He dismisses the feeling but acknowledges its origins; what did Velorak bring into the house?

If Stellan approved of his meditation marathon, he would probably be less pleased to know that Spock spends the next several hours methodically searching each room of the huge family home. He avoids, for as long as possible, his parent's quarters; so of course that is where he finds something suspicious, when the sun sits high in the sky and Spock is contemplating a new dose of pain-medication.

Under Sarek and Amanda's bed a tiny, almost unnoticeable piece of machinery clings to one of the metal frames. It is not immediately recognizable, but a quick investigation confirms Spock's suspicions about its origins.

The transmission from Dr. McCoy, which comes soon after, is quite redundant by that point. But Spock is grateful to have more evidence when he contacts Sub-Commander Terik to report his findings.

* * *

“I do not think this is legal,” Spock points out.

“I am an ambassador. You are a Starfleet officer.”

“Which gives neither of us jurisdiction in this matter.”

“Sub-Commander Terik has permitted it,” says Sarek firmly. Which is another way of saying: Terik has been _persuaded_ to permit it.

The Federation tends to overlook Vulcan's nepotism problem.

In any case, Spock declines from pushing. There's no reasonable way that two targets of an attempted-murderer should be witnessing that criminal's interrogation – but Spock _is_ curious.

“Did you not invite Mother?” he asks as, on-screen, a guard escorts Velorak into the small and windowless room where Terik awaits him.

“I did,” Sarek acknowledges. “She is of the opinion that Velorak must be insane, and believes it would be depressing to hear him speak.”

“A very emotional outlook,” Spock says.

“...if you would prefer, I could summarize the events for you later,” Sarek offers. Which is an odd thing to say when Spock sits right next to him; but he is saved from a response when Terik begins.

“T'rei Lktach Velorak,” she intones. “Will you submit to a telepathic questioning?”

“I will not.”

“Very well.” Terik assesses him silently for a moment. “You were born off world, correct?”

If Velorak is surprised by this beginning it doesn't show. “That is a matter of public record.”

“Your mother is last of the clan T'rei. Your father is unlisted.”

“Yes.”

“Despite the fact that you were born, and conceived, off-world.”

Velorak says nothing.

“Was your father Vulcan?” Terik asks.

“I fail to see how that is relevant.”

“Then let me clarify the question. Is your father _Romulan_? And do familial motivations contribute to your attempt to kill Ambassador Sarek via the telepathic bond with his wife and, failing that, to plant recording devices in his house?”

Nothing.

“We have already surmised this much,” Terik tells him, faintly apologetic. “The genetic markers make a compelling case.”

Velorak stirs, a small crease furrowing under his brow: anger. “Then why do you question me?”

“It is always best to be thorough,” says Terik. “You will be remanded into the custody of Starfleet Intelligence following this interview. It would be logical, for your own sake, to ensure that they do not need to waste time on a lengthy interrogative process.”

She folds her arms and waits.

Velorak presses his lips together. In the cold light of the interrogation room his face seems to lose the stillness of Vulcan serenity; instead he just looks hard. Tense. “I have family on Romulus.”

“Who requested that you kill Ambassador Sarek.”

“Obviously. His wife was an easier target.”

“And he likely would have succumbed to ill health, with their bond broken unexpectedly. And were you motivated by financial concerns with the Farrin?”

“No,” says Velorak, and immediately refutes his own statement by saying, “However, the profit may have proved useful to secure a place on Romulus.”

Terik nods. “Who is your contact in the Romulan Empire?”

“I will not say.”

“Who is your father?”

“I refuse to answer.”

“...” Terik narrows her eyes.

* * *

The full interrogation is, in fact, very thorough; Terik spends seven and a half hours demanding information about Velorak's youth, his Vulcan relatives, his work history, all off-world activities, and more. Some of it he refuses to answer. But often he just responds with a cold, clinical recitation – as though he is speaking of someone else. A different person.

At one point, Terik wonders over the wisdom of working for a high-profile ambassador. Surely, she asked, he feared he would be discovered?

“Sarek never notices the people around him,” is Velorak's only reply.

By the end of it Spock is quite willing to return home. Sarek escorts him there, very quiet, so Spock leaves him to meditate alone.

Amanda is finally released from the hospital two days after Velorak's interrogation. Though under strict orders of rest, she enthuses about her desire to “spend quality time with my son.” Accordingly, Sarek resumes working from home rather than her hospital bedside. Sometimes other members of the clan visit, bringing news or help from the offices; they seem to appear with startling frequency, and Spock always finds reason to absent himself on those occasions.

The old family property sprawls over nearly thirty square kilometers, but somehow the main house seems more claustrophobic than when Spock was a child. Still, he is glad to see his mother improving – and more than willing to accommodate her, even if Sarek's hovering occasionally seem to mis-target so that Spock, rather than his mother, finds himself aggressively coerced into resting.

After an unexpected cancellation Sarek finds himself without plans, so he joins Amanda and Spock in the back gardens. Amanda tends to over-water the plants, even after all these years; Spock can easily pick out a few cactus bushes puffed and drooping from excess.

“We should have T'Nara over while you're home,” Amanda says, pouring some honey into Spock's cup. He watches this with mute resignation. “She has a daughter your age, you know, and since your father mentioned that _something_ happened with T'Pring...”

She trails off, clearly hoping for him to explain.

Spock takes a sip of the over-sweet tea.

“Perhaps Spock would prefer a husband,” Sarek suggest unexpectedly.

Spock stares at his father, baffled until he remembers the stranger in the courtyard. “...Perhaps,” he concedes.

Amanda is delighted.

“Really! You know, that explains so much... Oh! You have someone on the ship, don't you?”

“I do not.”

“I bet it's that captain.”

“There is no one, Mother.”

“Alright, alright. Whatever you say.” But Amanda leans back, smiling smugly over her cup. “You'll have to tell me all about him when you write.”

“Mother - “

“And your other _friends,_ of course! You really do need to write more...”

“I agree,” Sarek interjects. Spock eyes him. With Amanda's recuperation he expected the two would fall into old habits – in other words, that Sarek would stop bothering to speak with his son and let his wife shoulder their duties as Vulcan parents. “We would... _both_ appreciate more frequent communications.”

This garden has never been a peaceful place for Spock. As a child his mother encouraged him to help with the plants; but some of them stung, and she always forgot to bring smaller gloves. Sarek often expelled him outside when important guests came to visit, and Spock would swelter in the heat for hours before someone remembered him.

When Spock started exploring the nearby mountains as a teenager he was baffled by his parent's censure. They had never been concerned about his health before, after all.

But they are trying, however clumsy the attempts. And he finds he actually _does_ want to visit again, but – not for awhile. Spock is still unsure what to think of his father's unusual behavior. And he certainly wants a better relationship with Amanda, but... at a distance, perhaps. They have always, Spock thinks, needed a distance – a way for him to retreat when Amanda starts to roll over his objections, ignoring all the things he actually needs.

So to Sarek's hint, he simply replies, “I will make an effort.”

* * *

“Do you feel that your time on Vulcan has been productive?” T'Les asks during their last face-to-face meeting before Spock leaves.

It's a difficult question. He knows what she means – has his mental state improved?

Does he _feel_ better?

Spock looks out the window of her borrowed office. Whatever T'Les' motives for hosting settings in unorthodox locations, he does like watching the birds. “I do not know.”

This trip has, if anything, only left Spock with more questions – but that's not the sort of thing you say to a healer trying to determine if you're fit for duty.

T'Les tilts her head, considering him over a padd. Vulcans have an eidetic memory, so either she finds it more efficient to combine paperwork with their sessions, or else the padd is a prop meant to help them both when Spock doesn't want to meet her piercing gaze.

He strongly suspects the latter.

“Do you think you will visit again soon?” she asks. “I know you have not returned to your parents house in a number of years, prior to this visit.”

It's an idle question, not meant to scrutinize – maybe she just wants to know if their sessions will continue.

Unfortunately, Spock's answer changes that.

“I have considered pursuing an apprenticeship at Gol,” he says, even knowing as he speaks that it is unwise.

T'Les pauses. Peers at him.

“Gol,” she echoes. “ - Interesting.”

Nothing more.

Straightening, Spock adds, “I have always admired the Masters of Gol for their devotion to logic.”

“The adepts are respected and admired throughout Vulcan,” T'Les acknowledges.

“Yes.”

“Is that why you wish to join them?”

Spock does not respond.

“Or perhaps,” T'Les adds mercilessly, “It is their lack of emotion that appeals to you? The Masters of Gol live a hard life – one that is not best for everyone. Mastery should be a means to seek knowledge, not to suppress it.”

“That is true. Of course.”

“Do you make this suggestion because you still experience suicidal impulses?”

The word smacks like a blow every time. Spock does not let it show on his face – his controls are at least enough for _that._

“ - Yes. Sometimes.”

Oddly, T'Les seems satisfied with his answer. She leans back. “Commander Spock – I will never denigrate the Masters of Gol. But I would advise you to seriously consider that _your_ answers may lie in the opposite direction. Becoming aware of what you need is more beneficial than controlling the effects of deprivation. And I think,” she adds, “That you have progressed more than you realize.”

Outside, another silver bird flits past.

He finds himself wanting to ask T'Les if she has ever left Vulcan. He does not; they make arrangements to speak again over video-call, in two weeks, and it is over.

He returns to the Enterprise in two days.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock returns to the Enterprise, talks to people, and the Enterprise is dirty. Also, he is definitely not a sucker for animals.

When Spock returns to the Enterprise after a six-week absence, he naturally expects to be swept away by the tyrannical CMO even before reviewing the ship's logs. Resigned to this likelihood, Spock nods to his parents and lets himself be grabbed up in the blue swirl of the Enterprise's transporter beams, bag clutched in hand.

He does not expect the transporter room to be filled with dirt.

“Er,” says Scotty, shifting sheepishly; behind the transporter console two unrated crewmen hastily shovel dirt away from the machinery while a third carefully brushes at buttons to clear them. “Hope the beam-up wasn't a problem, Sir. We've been having some technical difficulties.”

Eyebrows at his hairline, Spock says, “The transporter seems perfectly functional, Mr. Scott. May I ask...?”

“Oh, well. I'm sure the captain will fill you in on... all this. And that poor Lieutenant Zera should be meeting with you soon.”

“Of course.” The stack of dirt beside Mr. Zachary reaches above his head; when the man heaves another clump away from the machinery, it spills sideways, scattering against the dusty floors. Mr. Zachary turns, sees this, and just sighs. “Is there a... situation of biological contagion, Mr. Scott?”

“Er, probably. But you don't need to decontaminate.”

That's not promising.

The hall, when Spock gingerly steps out of the room, is much cleaner aside from a few patches of earth that have migrated from the open doorway. A pair of passing crewmen glare down at the dust he treads, and Spock notes muddy smears and handprints across the walls. Interesting.

Since no one arrived to greet him, Spock gladly heads to his rooms to deposit his belongings. He quietly notifies the bridge of his arrival, then heads straight to the science labs – Kirk can always summon him if he's needed, but Spock has a suspicion that his department has greater need of assistance.

He's not surprised to find that the bridge-call was superfluous; the captain is already talking to Spock's second, Lieutenant Zera, when he arrives.

“Well, we're pretty sure it's not sentient,” she's saying when Spock walks in.

“Was that a concern, Lieutenant?”

“A few of the researchers thought it seemed... malicious.”

“Ah. Well – Spock! When did you get back?”

Zera looks disconcertingly relieved to see him.

“Sixteen minutes ago,” Spock informs them. “Lieutenant, do I correctly understand that you are studying this... dirt, all over the ship?”

“It's _not_ dirt,” Zera says. “We're not entirely sure what it is, but it's definitely alive.”

“But, apparently, not sentient,” Kirk deadpans.

“Er. Yes, Sir. We're not quite sure how it's spreading... some of the engineers noticed it around the ship just after you left, Commander, and it keeps popping up no matter how much we incinerate... But at least it hasn't interfered with any systems yet. I've transferred a summary to your inbox...”

Zera pauses when he bends down. Peering beneath the nearest table, Spock watches the colorful cat he discovered on Theta Aranis III as she tries to trim her claws on the smooth durasteel tableleg.

“Oh! I'm sorry Sir,” Zera sighs. “That cat keeps escaping from the zoology containment units... the camouflage makes it hard to find. We could probably stick a tracker on her to discover the next spots where this dirt appears – we keep finding her rolling around in it.”

The cat seems to notice them at last. With supreme confidence she strides right past Kirk, sniffs Spock's boot, and then stands on her hind legs, patting authoritatively at his thighs.

Spock picks her up. The cat slumps into a boneless heap, purring.

“She's also very good at finding suckers,” Kirk comments. Lieutenant Zera coughs.

 _“Suckers,_ Captain?” Spock strokes the cat's soft ears.

“Oh, nevermind. Lieutenant, I expect you have a lot to discuss with Mr. Spock, but I'm afraid I need to borrow him first.”

“Oh! Yes. Um, Commander, we should have the lab cleaned soon...”

“I have full trust in your abilities, Lieutenant.”

Zera beams.

Kirk – unsurprisingly – insists that they 'talk' in Sickbay. McCoy ushers him into his office as soon as they arrive, closing the door.

“Don't tell me you're adopting that monster,” McCoy says without introduction, waving at the cat still in Spock's arms. “Knocked over half of my collection of antique medical supplies the other day when it snuck in...”

“A creature of impeccable taste,” Spock notes.

“Ha, ha. Do you know what I hate about Vulcan?”

“I could list 284 subjects you have mentioned, but I suspect there are more.”

“I hate Vulcan's _archaic_ medical documentation.” McCoy pulls a scanner from his desk. “I called that hospital, three physicians, the Department of Health, and for some reason the Vulcan Diplomatic Corps, and you know what they finally sent me? Your medical files!”

Spock raises an eyebrow. Opens his mouth.

“In _high Vulcan,”_ McCoy snaps. “Which, by the way, the Universal Translators can't figure out, even though the translators were _made by the VSA._ ”

Kirk coughs. “I think that's his way of asking how you're feeling,” he tells Spock.

“Then it is little wonder the VSA cannot properly translate in terms the doctor can understand,” Spock retorts

Grumbling, McCoy sets the scanner aside. “Well? How _are_ you feeling.” He sounds affronted he has to ask.

“Acceptable,” is Spock's reply.

The two exchange glances.

“...How is your family, anyway?” Kirk asks. “Your messages were a bit vague.”

“When you bothered to send them,” McCoy huffs.

This, of course, obligates Spock to thoroughly explain the events that led up to his repeated hospitalizations. Kirk wants to know more about Velorak's motives – Spock suspects a few people in Starfleet Intelligence will be contacted over the next few days. McCoy's concerns are a bit more practical.

“You were on sick leave! Who the hell gets attacked on sick leave?” he keeps asking, as though Spock is somehow at fault.

“I will certainly request that any potential assassins limit their activities to on-duty-hours.”

“You're not funny,” says McCoy, which is patently untrue; Kirk seems delighted. “Anyway – the medical records only told me about your leg, and the poison... How did you like that mind-healer? T'Les, I think?'

Some of the humor fades from the captain's face.

“Her assistance was adequate.”

“And you're going to keep talking to her,” says McCoy. It is not phrased like a question, but Kirk watches Spock sharply, awaiting his answer.

“Yes.”

It seems to satisfy. “Good,” says Kirk. “Then we won't ask anymore questions – unless there's anything you wanted to share?” A long pause. Kirk continues as though it never happened: “You're not scheduled until Beta Shift tomorrow. I'm sure you have a lot to catch up on. I have a call with Admiral Komack soon, but come see me at 1930 and we'll go over our next orders.”

“Yes, Captain.”

That was actually a much easier interaction than Spock anticipated.

It leaves him... suspicious.

* * *

Spock's first shift back on the bridge passes with little trouble. He receives an enthusiastic greeting from Ms. Uhura, who immediately announces that she's missed their 'long and fulfilling nights together.' Obviously she refers to their music sessions, though the implication is not lost on him – or anyone else, judging by the chuckles around the bridge. He receives a number of tamer greetings, including one from Yeoman Rand, who remarks warmly that he's 'looking much better' and tries to coax him into taking coffee.

In some regards it seems that he's never left. The other officers absorb him back easily. Most importantly, Spock is surprised to notice that the odd, tentative behavior of the crew – the behavior that persisted ever since he was found unconscious in his quarters – has dissipated entirely.

Perhaps one or two crewmen look at him a little long, and perhaps Mr. Sulu seems a bit _too_ intent on Spock's answer when he asks if Spock is fully recovered. But overall it would be easy to think his indiscretions never happened. The crew has moved on to more recent gossip. They have forgotten him already. Spock marvels at this display of human memory, human priorities.

He accepts Mr. Sulu's offer to train in the gym together; his time convalescing has badly affected Spock's physique. Mr. Chekov joins them, asking whether it is true that Spock killed someone during his medical leave.

“...It is not,” Spock replies, nonplussed.

Did he really uncover a massive government conspiracy? “No.”

Is it true that he captured a Romulan spy? “That is debatable.”

This, of course, only spurs Mr. Chekov to greater enthusiasm. Sulu shakes his head at them, then asks Spock if he's 'happy' to be back on the Enterprise.

Mr. Chekov goes very still as they wait for a response.

“...While Vulcan is my place of birth I am far more comfortable among the crew,” Spock answers. “And I am quite content to leave recent developments in the past.”

It seems insufficient; but Sulu smiles at him anyway.

* * *

“Lieutenant Zera. Is there any particular reason this plant is held in its own artificial gravity unit?”

The specimen is, clearly, the same variety that corroded his leg and resulted in his two-month leave. It is also displayed prominently on the island-table in Science Lab 3, encased in a 100-gallon tank covered in magnetic adjusters. A self-contained gravity unit keeps the plant floating while the magnetic interface spins it slowly in the center of the space. Someone has scribbled a large frowny face on one pane with washable marker.

It is the most oddly dramatic setup he's ever seen inside a lab.

“Oh!” says Zera, just as Spock is wondering why, precisely, his department has seen fit to grandly display the lifeform that nearly maimed him. “Well – sometime after we beamed it aboard it started eating through the tables. We're not quite sure what was stopping it before, but it seems to destroy... everything.”

“Fascinating,” says Spock for lack of anything better to say. The case is not one of those intended for truly dangerous specimens, so despite the dangers the plant must have been classified as low-threat. He swings open one of the walls, plucks an object from the table, and experimentally prods the plant's spindly leaf with the metal rod.

The rod melts.

“Uh, yeah, like that,” says Lieutenant Zera. Spock surreptitiously rubs his stinging fingers together as she gestures. “Something about the planet's composition must have stopped it from spreading excessively. The chemicals it secretes seems sort of similar to Fluoroantimonic acid, but there's this extra component I've never seen before...”

As Zera pulls out a microscope, Spock idly picks up another stirring-rod and touches the plant. He watches the rod slowly dissolve, dropping it just as the withered effect reaches the end.

He isn't fast enough. His fingers throb in mute rebuke; he hastily washes it in a nearby sink.

“Oh, interesting!” Zera exclaims, and to his surprise, also pokes something into the case. It takes him a moment to understand.

“Look, the wooden rod melts even slower,” she murmurs.

Spock stops her from feeding the plant yet another stirrer. “An excellent observation, Lieutenant – and a useful place to begin researching. However, I believe it would be better to measure this specimen's effects on samples that are not also equipment.”

Belatedly it occurs to Spock that he, himself, has destroyed two pieces of equipment.

Fortunately the lieutenant doesn't call him out. “Yes, Sir.”

“I would suggest determining how the plant secretes this corrosive agent without harming itself.”

“Yes, of course,” Zera agrees. She picks up a scalpel, pauses, and then considers the plant with dismay. “...Ah.”

_“Mr. Spock to the bridge.”_

“Perhaps a laser, lieutenant: I will leave you to it,” Spock says.

Zera sighs.

* * *

  
McCoy is on the bridge when Kirk calls him up from the bridge the next day, which isn't too strange. Maybe Spock needs to find more tasks for the Sickbay staff. Oddly Scotty also lounges near the usually-unused engineering station. They both beam at Spock as he steps out of the turbolift; Kirk spins around in his chair with a flourish, teeth bared in a predatory grin.

Spock pauses. Glances down surreptitiously. He doesn't _think_ he's done anything embarrassing, but Sulu and Chekov are glancing back with small smirks. Uhura removes her earpieces expectantly.

Alright. No use trying to avoid it. “Is there something you needed, Captain?”

“No, no,” Kirk says. “But we have some good news for you, Mr. Spock.”

Spock's idea of 'good news' is often not compatible with the notions of humans. He automatically takes a step back. Shifts, and pretends he was just adjusting his footing.

Starfleet officers do not flee from difficult situations. Usually.

That mission with the violent spiders three months ago doesn't count.

“News, Sir?”

“From the Federation Science Council,” says Kirk with relish. “Uhura tells me they've just made the announcement; you've been nominated for the Zee-Magnus Prize.”

Spock cannot fully hide his surprise.

The Zee-Magnus Prize is one of the most prestigious forms of recognition in the Federation – perhaps the _most_ prestigious. Selection is decided by a committee composed of researchers from one-hundred twelve separate planets. There are more than a few Vulcans on the committee, he recalls; Vulcan has always been at the forefront of scientific advancement.

Everyone on the bridge is awaiting a response. And for some reason, the first thing Spock can think to say is, “Most unusual. I understood that the awards were not being decided for another two years, due to some personnel issues among the committee...”

“Jesus, Spock, can't you even break a smile for this?” McCoy complains. “I don't know why I'm surprised.”

“Well, we're all happy for you,” Kirk says, unfazed.

“Congratulations!” Uhura finally bursts, echoed by everyone else.

Spock inclines his head politely. “Was there anything else you needed, Sir?”

McCoy rolls his eyes. “No, Commander, that was all,” Kirk says.

Instead of returning to the labs, Spock detours to his quarters. He'll make up the hours later; everyone is accustomed to his odd shifts, and will not question it.

Once sequestered in his rooms Spock retrieves his personal messages. He is not surprised to find a message from the award committee, but hesitates before opening it.

The nomination, he learns, was bestowed due to his research on the Enterprise's time-travel several months previous. The scientific implications were intriguing, of course, and Spock has a vague memory of submitting his preliminary research to one of Starfleet's affiliated publishers. The project, of course, is ongoing, and Spock is published by one scientific journal or another a dozen times a year. The event does not stand out in his memory; he more strongly recalls editing and commenting on related papers at the request of subordinates. The implications of accidental time-travel invigorated the science department long after the mission's conclusion.

The research _is_ important, but an award would be undeserved. Any half-competent scientist, exposed to the unusual situations the _Enterprise_ encounters, could formulate new and ground-breaking research. There is a reason the _Enterprise's_ entire crew is so well-known in scholarly fields.

Spock is an excellent scientist. But this nomination is not awarded due to Spock's merit. He just has the good fortune of being in the perfect place for new discoveries. He checks a list of the other nominees, recognizing names. Richard Daystrom has just published a fascinating account of his research on duotronics*, spanning years. That, Spock decides, would be a worthy candidate for such a reward.

Spock shuts down the computer and contemplates the award as he heads to the science labs. It would surely be rude to refuse, and such a course would result in unwanted scrutiny. Though perhaps if he publicly supported another nominee...?

He is still mulling over possibilities when he arrives at lab 8, and at first does not notice the unusual silence around him. But the activity on the _Enterprise_ can be predictable through its chaos. Eventually Spock looks up from his study of the latest project-reports and realizes that half the lab is shooting him covert glances.

Perhaps someone on the bridge gossiped, Spock realizes, and resigns himself to fielding dozens of questions about whether he 'feels' honored, or pleased...

But he proceeds for another hour of research without interruption. The topic of his study is the odd dirt, which among other places somehow found its way under the bridge science-station today. Spock's analysis of the material is so intense that he barely notices when Lieutenant Mira approaches him.

“Commander – did you have a moment?”

Spock dislikes this question, and opens his mouth to inform the lieutenant that it is logical to ask precise queries for the sake of efficiency.

Then he sees at her face and hesitates.

She looks like she's bracing herself to face something terrible. It's the same expression he once saw on an ensign moments before the young man was killed by an oncoming disruptor-blast. It is also the same face a yeoman wore three years ago before declaring her love for him.

Humans can be very difficult to read.

So Spock opts for silence, nodding for her to continue.

“Sir, I just wanted to say that we're all thrilled to hear that you've been selected you for the Zee Magnus Prize. And we're honored to work with you.” Lieutenant Mira smiles. “You deserve it.”

“...Thank you, Lieutenant.”

* * *

Spock is congratulated by _eleven_ more crewmen by the start of his next shift. Another strange human tradition. Why should he care if Ensign Davis stops him in the hall, bouncing on her heels, to gush over how happy she is for him? Why should he care when crewman Jones says the paper was very impressive, and he forwarded a copy to his mother back home?

He doesn't care. Obviously. Pride is illogical. In any case, people need to stop acting like he's won the award already; it's only a nomination.

He says as much when Kirk tries to congratulate him again over lunch.

“Oh, you know you'll win,” says Kirk with disarming confidence. “And so does everyone else.”

“Not like he needs to get his head swollen anymore,” says McCoy. But his voice lacks the usual rancor.

“Right – it's not as though this is your first time,” says Kirk, in a voice Spock can recognize as teasing. “The Vulcanian Scientific Legion of Honor, the Kerry Award....”

Spock stabs at his salad and stubbornly ignores them.

Perhaps taking pity, Kirk changes the topic and starts talking about an honor _he's_ recently received. Starfleet, he explains, wants to recognize him as his generations most 'inspirational leader.' Which is fine, except they also want to turn it into a media-event and interview some people from his hometown. Who might remember some... less impressive moments from his past.

Like the time he studied architecture, decided to build a few huts in an empty section of the woods, and accidentally started rumors that a group of aliens had formed a secret colony there; it actually resulted in a brief Starfleet investigation.

There was also an occasion that he tried to anonymously 'improve' the school computer system, accidentally wiping all it's information instead. Also, he might have burnt down the family barn.

Twice.

“God, I feel for your mother,” McCoy says, fork dangling forgotten from his hand as he stares at Kirk.

“I might not have told her about the second time,” Kirk admits.

McCoy sputters. “Didn't tell her! You burned down the farm trying to _make a phaser –_ like that was ever going to turn out well – and, what, you tried to hide it?”

“Of course not,” Kirk says. Fiddles with his chips. “I blamed it on a horse.”

“She did not believe that.”

“She did not believe that. And that's when I committed myself to becoming a better liar.”

“In which you succeeded, I believe,” says Spock dryly. Kirk grins. “However, I must agree with the doctor. I cannot understand the logic in attempting to construct a weapon. Did you have some need of one?”

“No, of course not. Haven't you ever done something just to see if you _could?_ I was curious!”

“Your poor parents,” McCoy grumbles.

“Oh, like you've never got up to any mischief in Georgia. What did you tell me a few years ago – you used to practice splints on neighborhood dogs when you were a kid? All those poor dogs, trying to walk with their legs wrapped in bandages - ”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Everyone has a rebellious teenage stage,” Kirk announces.

“They do not,” McCoy says. “I'll have you know my daughter was an angel.”

“That just means you never caught her.”

“What do you - “

They argue for a minute. Spock tries hard to picture Kirk as a _rebellious teenager._ He can only picture a beaming, bright-eyed child, energetic and earnest.

“I find it difficult to imagine,” he informs them.

“I bet Vulcan doesn't _have_ rebellious kids,” McCoy says. “They just breed up a little army of androids and let 'em loose when they're old enough to look respectable.”

“Doubtlessly such a method would be more efficient,” Spock suggests.

As a child Spock received no less than than 17 citations for fighting, skipping classes, and arguing with instructors. His mother once called the authorities when he decided to camp in the deep desert for a week and neglected to tell anyone. One of his classmates in year 9 was discovered using social conditioning to teach sehlats to unlock doors, and when Spock was 16 he stumbled on a group of his peers melting vast quantities of fermented sugar, trying to see if they could become intoxicated from the fumes. They invited Spock to join them.

It was, in fact, possible. With some effort.

Spock placidly eats his salad.

Kirk shoots him a look like he knows what Spock is thinking. Spock should... probably visit another mind-healer, sometime, to check if he's accidentally established a link with the captain.

But that's a problem for the future.

“It is interesting how many officers seem to have colorful pasts,” Spock says instead. “And statistically unlikely.”

“In my experience, people with wild stories also have the most interesting lives,” Kirk says. “You can't do anything meaningful without being curious, passionate – and everyone makes mistakes along the way. Some of them just happen to look more dramatic than others.”

“I see,” says Spock.

And for some reason, he finds himself rubbing the burns on his hand from where he prodded at the plant in Lab 3.

* * *

Spock visits the captain for a game of chess that night.

They don't talk much during the first game. It's only halfway through the second – when Spock has begun to relax – that Kirk asks why he seems so opposed to the Zee-Magnus Prize.

“I am not opposed to it,” Spock replies. “I merely fail to share the crew's interest.”

“Because you don't think you'll get it?”

“For a number of reasons,” Spock corrects. “But, yes, I also believe Richard Daystrom would be a more appropriate recipient.”

“Tell me about his work.”

Surprised, Spock glances at him. But Kirk seems sincerely interested; he relents.

Kirk is, of course, familiar with the name; Daystrom's work on robotics was required reading at the academy. His latest research is a project spanning more than two decades – groundbreaking work on duotronics that will dramatically change the way they use and interpret data... not to mention the implications for artificial intelligence.

“Ah,” says Kirk. “I see. And your research only... completely broke the way we relate to time, space, and parallel dimensions. So, barely significant at all.”

Spock presses his lips together and does not reply.

Surprisingly, Kirk takes the hint. They play a little while longer in silence.

Then:

“Sometimes I wonder if I should have stayed on Earth,” says Kirk, apropos of nothing.

Spock jolts. Then stares at him, surprised. No; shocked.

“Why?” he manages.

Kirk glances at him. Looks away. “It's arrogant, isn't it?” he asks. “Leading hundreds of people, making decisions that affect entire planets, governments... and who says my judgment is the right one? But I can't stay on Earth, either, thinking of all the _other_ people who would be making their mark on the galaxy... anyone who wants power doesn't deserve it, Spock. I'm no exception.”

“You do not want power,” says Spock, unaccountably rankled. “And if I may make an observation, Sir, I have found your judgment to be excellent. It is not arrogance to know your own worth, or to strive to benefit society.”

“Hmm,” says Kirk, smiling as he takes another drink. “That's kind of you to say. A word of advice, Spock: when a Federation-sponsored committee tries to say you've changed the field of science, it might be a good idea to consider the possibility that they're correct. It's only logical to acknowledge the truth, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I'm AWARE that Daystrom was awarded the prize years earlier. The timeline discrepancy is deliberate, don't @ me


	11. Chapter 11

Spock wakes up oddly warm, and heavy. There is also a weight on his chest.

The first thing he sees upon opening his eyes is _brown._ Wet, dark earth clings to the walls, the ceiling, the desk by his bed. It's even on the sheets – when he moves his hand he feels grit clinging to his skin.

And on his chest, a dark shape camouflaged to blend in with its surrounding. Two bright eyes gleam at him from the darkness; the alien cat purrs softly, stretches out her forelegs, and starts to knead at his chest.

Spock's internal clock informs him that it is currently 0327. Several hours before he is required for duty.

...The dirt supposedly isn't dangerous. Neither is the animal. He can attend to this later.

He lays there awhile, closing his eyes, and lets the cat burrow uselessly against his chest. Then he sits up. The cat squawks.

Dark earth. _Black_ earth.

The dirt he's seen around the ship is usually dry, crumbly – so why are the walls of his quarters wet?

The cat meows indignantly as he starts to get dressed.

* * *

Spock is waylaid from investigating the substance in his quarters when Mr. Scott sees him in the hall and promptly starts ushering him toward a turbolift.

The exterior of a Starfleet Constitution-class vessel is meant to be an awe-inspiring sight. Its form is a mix of beauty and intimidating grandeur; her design bring hope to allies and an equal dread to enemies.

The interior, Mr. Scott often likes to say, is held together with 'bubble gum and hope.'

This is not to say that starships are poorly designed. The best Federation scientists spend years carefully hammering out the schematics of futuristic vessels, often scrapping and re-configuring ideas as technology develops. The problem is that while theoretical engineers do factor a degree of error into their designs, many of them lack practical starship experience. Which means they do not plan for certain eventualities.

Like several metric tons of stubborn alien dirt caught in the ship's wiring, as one example.

“Now, it's nothing to worry about Mr. Spock,” Scotty assures him anxiously, even though Spock's expression doesn't twitch at the news. “Just a matter of cleaning out the gutters, as it were...”

“How was this not noticed earlier, Mr. Scott?”

“Well, we were checking,” Scotty says. Spock assumed as much; the engineer, erratic though he can be, is far from incompetent. “We've expected that this biocontaminant would reach the engines eventually... but we thought we were on top of it. Turns out, some of the material can't be detected by scanner. We're not sure why, because that's not the case for _all_ of it...”

Spock remembers Lieutenant Zera's suggestion that the space-dirt could be sentient. He forcefully shoves it aside. Illogical. “Please direct my technicians to samples of this... 'invisible' dirt, Mr. Scott. We will investigate the issue. Precisely how does this development affect the ship?”

Scotty scratches his chin, shifts, and utterly ignores one panicked ensign running through one doorway of the primary engine room to bolt through the other side. “Well, it's hard to say. Of course we're experimenting with ways to get rid of the stuff...” Scotty trails off, squinting at Spock. Shifting again, he adds, “But, ach, we're not going to be able to hold warp anytime soon.”

“Because of dirt,” Spock deadpans.

“Well, Mr. Spock, it's really more about the way it disrupts the magnetic fields and electric currents, which - “

Spock is aware. He ignores Mr. Scott's rambling, striding over to a corner of the room to peer up at the ceiling. Continuing to speak, Mr. Scott paces the floor for a minute before coming to stand next to Spock. Looking up at the ceiling, he stops mid-sentence.

“....Is that a flower?” asks Scotty, bewildered. “In my engine room?”

“Please do not disturb it, Mr. Scott. I will update you when I know more.”

“But a _flower!_ ” says Scotty, now huffing. Spock shakes his head and makes his exit.

The camouflaged cat appears to wind around Spock's dirt-encrusted ankles as he walks to the lab; after nearly tripping twice he plucks her up. For once the cat fights to get down, but he ignores her struggling, dropping her into the arms of a bewildered ensign when he arrives at Lab 3. “Please return this creature to zoological containment,” he tells the officer.

Lieutenant Zera glances up from her table, smiling slightly when she sees the cause of the fuss. “You should really name him if you're going to keep a cat,” she advises.

“I am not 'keeping' her, Lieutenant. She is a subject of study.”

“Well, a name would be useful anyway,” she says perplexingly.

“Very well,” Spock deadpans. “Her name is Specimen.”

“...I'm calling her Speckles,” Zera decides. Spock stifles a sigh.

Lieutenant Zera certainly seems more relaxed then when he first returned to the ship. Which is a good indication that she's making progress in studying the plant from Theta Aranis III - even if her setup remains unorthodox.

Maybe she's just glad they no longer have to deal with the captain hovering around.

“Lieutenant. Why is your table not sterile?”

“Well, Sir, I was having an issue with the samples... dissolving everything. _Everything._ But then I remembered that maintenance was having a hard time getting rid of the dirt around the ship – you can't even destroy it with a phaser, you know. I think Mr. Scott has been venting it into space. The plant - “

Zera cuts off as the cat leaps onto her lab-table. She snatches the feline away before it can sniff the samples. “ _Bad_ Speckles,” she scolds, and hands it back to the sheepish ensign meant to take the creature to zoology. “Sorry, Sir – the plant doesn't seem to dissolve the dirt for some reason.”

It's just one more confirmation. “I am unsurprised, Lieutenant. I believe these are seeds.”

Zera pauses.

Squints at him.

“...Nooo,” she decides.

Spock raises an eyebrow. “The evidence is quite high - “

“No,” she says firmly. “Can't be seeds. And definitely not from this plant.”

“Why not?”

“We would have been able to tell. And I hate botany,” she emphasizes.

“...I believe they are seeds.”

_“Fuck._ Uh, sorry Sir. Um.” Spock isn't sure why people always apologize to him when they swear. “Sulu and Smith from Botany have also been studying this sample... I'll have them take a look at, uh. The seeds.” A pause. “You _really_ think they're seeds?”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

“Ugh, _fine_.”

* * *

After his meeting with the lieutenant Spock calls together the other department heads – and of course the captain – to revise their quarantine policies for this contaminant. Mr. Scott has already been sealing ventilation in some areas of the ship, suspecting an airborne transmission; now, with that possibility almost assured, they work to revise procedures.

The discussion is not encouraging.

“The problem here,” Sulu points out, “is that the seeds are difficult to destroy. Which we already knew... But if the spores they release are similar, our usual sterilizing practices won't do anything. And we can't detect the spores by scanner for the transporters to take away – we could all be covered right now.”

“Agreed,” says Spock. “If any plants are allowed to mature, the spread will only accelerate. And the results are demonstrably dangerous.”

Kirk sighs. “A nice, safe patrol area – so of course we're overrun by indestructible flora. Bones, what did you use to treat Spock in Sickbay? When you had to clean his injuries - “

“I'm not sure that's the best word. We flushed them out, collected the water in a container, and beamed that container back down to the planet because acid was still eating through the metal. And there were only minute traces in Spock's leg... there was some chemical slowing the effects of the acid, one I don't recognize.”

“Forward your reports to Spock's department; anything to slow it would help. Spock, how exactly _are_ these seeds spreading?”

“Previously, the plant of origin was deemed low-risk and freely handled; it is now secured in an airtight tank.

“So they can't spread any further, surely?”

“It is possible that more plants have sprouted across the ship – in which case, they may also be reproducing,” Spock says. “Additionally, we are still puzzled by the structure of these 'seeds,' but if they are, for example, simply a haploid form of the parent plant - “

“They can reproduce on their own, yes,” Kirk sighs. “Do you think that's likely?”

“I calculate that the spread would be even faster if that were the case,” Spock replies. “ - But it should not be discounted as a possibility.

“Wonderful. Bones, do you have any ideas about safe decontamination procedures...?”

Dr. McCoy does, of course; but as is the case with everyone else, he only offers theories. Afterward, Kirk institutes a new policy; all active 'sightings' of the seed need to be reported, filed, and logged. Chekov offers to have Navigation chart out the growth-patterns – his department tends to attract number-oriented officers – and the meeting concludes.

The greater onus of work, of course, rests on Spock and McCoy – it is expected that one of their departments will solve the problem. As per usual.

When the meeting disperses Spock intends to head straight to the labs; he still needs to investigate samples of the damp, shinier seeds collected from the ceiling of his quarters.

McCoy pauses him along the way.

The doctor squints. “Have you taken any breaks recently?”

“I do not need a 'break,'” is the nonplussed reply. “I am following my normal sleep schedule.”

“...Right. Well, let me know if you need anything.”

Spock has no intention of doing so, but he nods and departs.

He detours to his quarters with a collection kit, then heads to the lab. By the time he arrives he finds that Botany has collected the immature plant-sprout from Engineering. His staff stand around debating it when he arrives.

“We should just incinerate it before it gets _indestructible_ like the other one - “

“We need to study it! If we can figure out _how_ it starts producing that acid - “

“This whole problem started because we didn't properly contain the first plant - “

“Well, we know better now - “

“Sir, what do you think?”

The lab falls silent.

“Mr. Ramirez, please contact Engineering and attain their assistance designing a secure area of study,” says Spock. A few officers grimace. “I agree that it is important to examine the organism at every stage of development. In particular, confirm whether these 'seeds' are microplants capable of independent breeding.”

“Yes, Sir. And, I hope not, Sir.”

“Hope is illogical, Mr. Ramirez.”

Ramirez makes a face at him.

After assigning the rest of his department to their areas of study, Spock finally manages to turn his attention to the sample from his own quarters.

It's noticeably different from the splotches of hard grain-like seeds that have manifested around the rest of the ship. Most of the seeds have a loose crystalline structure, superficially mineral; it's why none of his scientists reached the same conclusion as Spock. Interestingly, in this sample the composition seems altered; the structure has loosened, deteriorated. Spock theorizes the seed has been rendered 'dead.' There's also an odd chemical overlaying everything, one he doesn't recognize. But it bears no resemblance to the acid from the parent-plant...

Research can be a slow, tedious thing. Spock is sure to share his findings with the other officers – he is not, primarily, a botanist – and he also requisitions a geologist, since the seed's crystalline structure is so perplexing. Though this last idea seems useless, as poor Mr. Miller seems utterly baffled by his own samples.

Halfway through Beta Shift a small reminder chimes on Spock's padd.

Spock considers ignoring it. His works is certainly more important. But an appointment has been made; failing to appear would be rude at best. And anyway he's been making no headway. Reluctantly he clears his station and informs Lieutenant Zera that he will be on 'break.'

She looks faintly surprised, but promises to alert him to any changes.

Once alone in his quarters, Spock calls the bridge and requests frequency use for a private long-distance call. Confirmation comes down a moment later, and he opens a transmission to the Rytemk hospital in ShiKahr.

It takes T'Les only a minute to answer. Spock can see little of her office on the screen and T'Les nods once in greeting. He is still not sure why she was so insistent that they use video-calls, but he raises his hand in a salute anyway.

Spock is hesitant to describe the work he's doing – the shipboard contaminant problem is becoming increasingly serious, to the extent that it may soon be classified as confidential to prevent public alarm. Or, more likely, attempted theft of the plant that caused this mess. So he cautiously describes recent days in cryptic, vague terms.

But T'Les isn't concerned about any of that. She wants to know how he's 'relating with shipmates on a personal level.'

“...The same as always,” Spock tries. T'Les tilts her head, so he elaborates. “The ship is currently under crisis, and there is no time for much... 'socializing.' But my interactions with the crew have been adequate.”

“Is the situation so dire,” T'Les wonders, “or do you seek work to distract yourself?”

“The ship is on yellow alert.”

The crease in her brow is subtle, but for a Vulcan, unmistakable: T'Les doesn't believe him.

It is... not entirely _surprising_ to be distrusted, but it's hard to avoid taking offense.

This would be much easier if they were in the same room.

“I do not understand the purpose of these sessions if we cannot meld,” he reminds her, before T'Les can prod him further.

“Do you believe my experience is so limited that I have never treated patients without the use of telepathy?” T'Les replies. Spock admits that she surely has such skills. “Then you admit that melding, while useful, is not necessary to these sessions. In any case – I believe it is important for you to practice communicating. With words.”

“...I am considered an excellent public speaker,” Spock points out. T'Les just hums.

The conversation is – fine. But not entirely productive; Spock finds himself wondering if he _really_ needs these calls.

He's fairly certain McCoy would declare him unfit for duty if he tried to stop this soon, though. So it's probably best to continue... even if he is, clearly, past any point of danger.

Before they part, T'Les informs him that Velorak has given public testimony in court. She asks if he's read the newsfeed, and whether he possesses any thoughts on the matter.

“I will learn about Velorak's fate when the trial is finished,” says Spock tersely. “I have no time for distractions at the moment.”

T'Les presses her lips together. “As you prefer,” she says.

But he somehow has the sense she disapproves.

* * *

At 2300 hours Spock receives a report from Linguistics; three small plants sprouted unnoticed behind one of their consoles. This was only discovered when acid ate through the console and seriously burned a young ensign.

The plants have been hastily quarantined by means of burying them in their own seeds, which seem to hold an innate immunity to the corrosive secretions. But it's a troubling development. The seeds have been seen all over the ship. And if the metal-eating parent-plants start growing in engineering, or by the ship's hull...

Captain Kirk orders them to attain orbit near the closest empty planet. Though he doesn't say it, everyone knows evacuation might be necessary. Unless Spock's department can determine how to solve this.

Yet progress remains frustratingly slow. Even with a greater sample size, they cannot determine how the plant remains protected from its own acid. It's the sort of delicate work that could – in ideal conditions – take months or longer.

They have perhaps days.

Specimen the Cat also proves herself a nuisance by escaping repeatedly into the labs, perhaps attracted by the noise. They have to toss her outside when she keeps trying to sniff the plants. Spock clearly needs to overhaul the zoological containment protocols. But that's a matter for another time.

At 1100 hours the next day many of his scientists have come and gone, but Spock continues to work. He remains convinced that the answer lies in the unusual samples from his quarters. Similar samples have now been taken from around the ship, but never in such large quantities. Of course this leaves a number of factors to investigate. Spock's quarters remain a unique area of the ship; higher gravity settings, higher temperature, and lower oxygen could all have affected the seeds' composition.

McCoy comes down to invite him for lunch; Spock declines.

Instead of leaving, which would of course be the logical thing to do, McCoy perches himself on the nearest table and sits watching him awhile. It's entirely against proper safety regulations; the doctor should know better.

When Spock says as much McCoy rolls his eyes. “Spock, you've barely left the labs since you came aboard.”

“Yes,” says Spock. “There is a serious threat to this ship. I am surprised you are not researching it yourself, Doctor.”

McCoy sighs as though Spock's very existence tires him. “ _Look._ I'm just saying – I hope you know this situation won't last forever. You can't expect to just dive into science and forget your problems, and you shouldn't let work distract you from living.”

“...If I do not work, we may not continue to 'live,'” Spock points out.

“One day I'm really going to strangle you,” McCoy mentions in that same mild tone of voice.

Spock raises an eyebrow. Considers him. “Would you care to look over my results, Doctor? I believe studying the rate of decomposition between different materials may yield some insight into this organism's vulnerabilities.”

McCoy purses his lips. Snatches the padd Spock extends. “Gimme that – you don't know a damn thing about biochem, anyway, where's that jumpy lieutenant of yours - “

Spock returns to his work, shunting aside the discomfort provoked by McCoy's words.

And however irascible his companion's manner – it is pleasant to have company.


	12. Chapter 12

By the next day Captain Kirk settles the Enterprise into orbit around an empty planet nearby. It contains little life – mostly grasses and ferns – but has an oxygen atmosphere that could support the crew awhile should the worst happen.

Several teams, meanwhile, prep their shuttles for potential evacuation.

Despite these preparations tension among the crew remains relatively low; over the past few years they've often been forced to begin emergency procedures, but the ship still remains whole and sound. That final step has never been necessary.

Kirk, of course, is the reason for this success. His burden easily explains the stress Kirk exudes as he paces across from Spock in the small conference room next to Lab 4.

“So you think this plant primarily lived underground?”

“Yes, Captain. Our samples do not seem to require much air or light. Their chemosynthesis process is actually quite interesting - “

Kirk waves a hand through the air. “Unless it's relevant, Spock, that can wait. Now, these plants seem to leech through everything, so - “

“We have more closely examined soil samples from Theta Aranis III, Sir. It would appear that the soil was composed of 67% inert seeds. Other varieties of fauna from the region seem to have a parasitic relationship with these seeds, so they do, in fact, serve the same function as usual earth soil by providing nutrients to other life. Unfortunately, we do not yet understand what prevents certain seeds from taking root.”

“Scotty's disposing of them as fast as possible,” Kirk mutters. “If we quarantine everyone to a small portion of the ship, and vent the air in the rest - “

“I have run such calculations, Sir. As we have not perfected a sufficient decontamination process, such a tactic would only delay matters at best.” A beat. “Is there anything else? I must return to the labs.”

“No – thank you, Spock. Let me know when you have updates,” Kirk says. But he hesitates before leaving. “Spock...”

Spock pauses by the door, raising an eyebrow.

“...Nevermind. It can wait until this is over.”

“You do not seem overly concerned about the ship's prospects,” Spock notes.

The captain flashes a warm smile – a genuine, confident look that always leaves people trusting him, seeking his validation. “No, Spock, I suppose not. I know you'll figure this out.”

Spock nods, accepting the weight of this responsibility. Kirk's smile suddenly drops. “Which,” he adds, “Isn't to say that you, _personally -_ “

“I must head to the labs,” Spock says.

But before doing so Spock detours to his quarters. There's no reason, really, except for some reason he feels very unbalanced suddenly. He finds a glass of water and then just stands in the center of the room a minute, regulating his breathing, focusing on light meditative techniques – even if he is, unfortunately, far too busy for meditation.

The isolation, more than anything, helps release his body's tension. Then, as he prepares to head out, Spock notices a familiar ripple of red that _almost_ manages to blend in against his bedcovers.

Sighing, he pets Specimen the cat for a minute, then plucks up the protesting animal to deliver her back to Zoology.

* * *

“I think the plant needs a name,” says Lieutenant Zera when Spock arrives.

This does not seem like a priority, as he points out.

“It's a priority because 'the plant' has lost all meaning,” Zera says. “We need to preserve my sanity, Sir. It's vital.”

Spock politely offers to escort his second to Sickbay for a psychiatric examination; Zera sulks. He relents. They will call the plant TA541, which is its proper designation in their list of samples from Theta Aranis III.

“You're no fun,” Zera says.

He takes it as a compliment.

The atmosphere of the lab is a bit tense the rest of the day – everyone knows they're on a time-crunch, and it's not uncommon to see people weaving in an out of the rooms, slumped and vaguely put-upon as they cart around plant samples – _TA541_ samples – on mounds of seeds. This chaos also makes it hard to keep track of equipment; Spock has a difficult time locating a scalpel, but eventually spots one on a nearby table, and lifts it up.

Except Zera yanks his arm away, forcing him to drop the tool. “Sir!” she yelps.

Spock blinks at her, nonplussed, as she drags him a few feet over to the sink and sticks his forearm under a spray. It quickly drenches his sleeve. “A problem, Lieutenant?”

“I was using that to take samples from the plant stem – didn't it burn you?”

Raising an eyebrow, Spock glances back at the lab table. Ah. Now that he looks, the scalpel does look a bit weathered; the acid slowly eating through its metal, no doubt. “It did not.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yes. Please release me, Lieutenant.”

Embarrassed, Zera does. Spock inspects his hand. “Your reaction was appropriate,” he adds as Zera rubs at her face.

No burns. Interesting. He glances around, spots a leaf-cutting on another table splayed over a mound of seeds, and walks over to prod it.

Lieutenant Zera makes a strangled, indignant noise behind him.

“Interesting,” Spock notes as she tries to tug him back toward the sink. “That is not necessary, Lieutenant; the acid does not seem to affect me.”

She stops tugging. “What? Did the plant stop releasing it?”

Spock eyes the cut plant fibers. Then his hand – which, he notes, shines with an almost oily sheen. “No,” he concludes. “One moment, please.”

In later reports, Zera dutifully compliments her superior for discovering the acid's counteragent, using, she pointedly remarks, _“an incidentally fortunate disregard for sane lab safety procedures - “_

Here is what Spock discerns, after further testing:

> -Skin samples from other members of the crew are still vulnerable to the acid
> 
> - _Spock's_ skin samples are still vulnerable, if taken from places other than his hands and wrists.
> 
> -There is an unknown chemical coating Spock's hands, which somehow stabilizes the acid's chemical structure and renders it inert.
> 
> -The cat is in the lab again.

Specimen exhibits a wary interest in the TA541 samples scattered about the room, hair standing on end as she sniffs the air. Spock ignores the apologies from the weary Zoology ensign stumbling in after her (Ensign Gardner, he makes a note) in favor of immediately appropriating the creature for examination.

When he touched the scalpel Spock had not yet undergone proper hygiene procedures for handling samples. And prior to entering the lab, he was petting this cat.

A few more things Spock learns, in the next hour:

> -Small mammals do _not_ appreciate having their blood extracted.
> 
> -The glass counters on the right side of the lab are inaccurately listed as 'scratch resistant.'
> 
> -Specimen secretes a substance from her oil-glands that stabilizes TA541's cellular structure, rendering it harmless while simultaneously poisoning the plant itself.

This last point is probably the most important.

Spock would _like_ to examine the cat's chemical secretions himself, but Lieutenant Zera informs him that he is not a biochemist.

“I have made extensive study of comparative xenobiology - “

“Not chemistry,” Zera sing-songs. “Anyway, we need your fairy-powers to make the cat cooperate, Sir.”

Spock eyes her. Zera has never before teased him for his Vulcan attributes (excluding that unfortunate instance when a different plant, with similar properties to catnip, forced him to fall asleep halfway through shift).

Seeing his frown, another scientist helpfully informs him that Zera isn't mocking his ears, but “she means you're a princess.”

...Spock gives up on deciphering this new and strange behavior of his subordinates. He strokes Specimen and uses light empathy to keep her sleepy and content as samples are collected.

He does, eventually, reduce the potency of his telepathic emanations when he notices a few chemists yawning; Spock might have overreached a bit.

* * *

The next issue, of course, is replicating and then distributing an untested alien substance through the entire ship, simultaneously, in sufficient quantities that it entirely neutralizes all extant samples of TA541 without harming the crew.

This requires the assistance of both Mr. Scott and Dr. McCoy.

Mr. Scott remarks twice that he 'prefers dogs,' which does not seem relevant to the situation at hand.

Dr. McCoy informs Spock that it's “unhygienic and ridiculous” to let “some untamed, mutated alien fauna ramble about the ship as it pleases.” He completely ignores Spock's protest that Zoology has labeled the creature safe, and that there is no evidence of mutation.

McCoy also insists that proper testing is necessary to determine the safety of aerosolizing the cat's natural defensive mechanisms, which might not respond so benignly to humanoid life.

“You have twenty-four hours for your tests,” Spock replies.

“That's not nearly enough, and you know it.”

“It will likely take an additional day to replicate the chemical in sufficient amounts to prepare it for dispersion. And your safety precautions, Doctor, will not be particularly beneficial if the entire crew is marooned on an uncharted world due to our slowness.”

McCoy swears at him and stomps away. Satisfied, Spock locates a comm-panel and informs the bridge that they should be able to implement Mr. Scott's dispersal system within the next day.

* * *

Afterward, teams from Sanitation painstakingly sweep the halls, appropriating officers from Engineering to dismantle wall-panelings and durasteel covers for examination. But most members of the crew subside into a sort of genial cheer; Lieutenant Uhura insists Spock join her in the rec room for 'drinks,' which he knows from experience is her way of saying tea.

Unless Mr. Scott joins them – as he does today - in which case Spock has to pretend very hard that he can't recognize the scent of scotch.

It's a bit – strange, sitting between their pleasant conversation, and realizing he has no important work to occupy the back of his mind. Without work, Spock's thoughts often drift into self-reflection, examination. And for him, that's a dangerous space to occupy.

He reminds himself that Uhura invited him here, so it's rude to remain silent. She invited Spock because they're friends.

Years living among humans, and that still feels strange.

Uhura doesn't seem to mind his silence, though that might be because of their other company. She leans across the table when she addresses Scott, smiling in a way that crinkles her eyes, lips tilted. Flirting, Spock realizes with surprise. Not that Scotty seems to notice.

Unfortunate. It's hard to imagine anyone on the ship more oblivious than their chief engineer.

Uhura turns, grin widening as she looks at him. “Mr. Spock, you've saved the day again,” she prods, apparently continuing some previous point; by her side Scotty nods in absent agreement, sipping a vile-smelling flask. “That month you were gone and we couldn't do a thing about those plants, and then you have to show up and embarrass the whole ship.”

“No one should be 'embarrassed' for failing to solve the problem,” Spock reproves. “I am certain my department worked to the best of their capabilities.”

“Of course they did,” Uhura agrees. “ - That's what makes your work even more impressive.”

“Ach, quit teasing the lad,” Scotty says. He raises the illicit flask, throwing a wink in Spock's direction.

Spock tightens his grip on his cup as an odd warmth suffuses his stomach. Curious.

“We had to tear off half the wall panels to get McCoy's mixture circulating correctly,” Scott mourns. “Half me ship more exposed than a Risan dancer, it's a damn travesty - “

“Doesn't sound like a situation you'd mind,” Uhura laughs.

“A lady like the _Enterprise_ needs her dignity!” Scott protests. Catching sight of something over Uhura's shoulder, he waves and calls, “Captain! And Doctor – are we done tormenting my poor ship yet?”

“I think it's technically my ship,” is the captain's dry rejoinder. He sits to join them as Scotty waves away the thought.

“We'll give it a few more hours,” McCoy says. “You know the vents are sectioned to isolate different parts of the ship? It's a nuisance.”

“Yes,” Spock agrees. “Quite short-sighted of the designers to prevent us from being simultaneously afflicted by chemical attacks, Doctor.”

McCoy flourishes a fork threateningly in his direction.

Coughing, Kirk turns to Spock. “Have you received any more news about the Zee Magnus Prize yet?”

Spock regards him blankly. “No. But checking my inbox has not been a priority, Sir.”

“Of course.” But Kirk still seems disappointed.

Leaning back, Spock lets the alternating conversations drift on without his input.

It's strange, he thinks, that even solving a serious threat to the ship doesn't let him relax. As though he's merely waiting for the next disaster. For a brief moment Spock envies his crewmates for their easy and cheerful return to normalcy. Instead of suppressing the emotion, he analyzes it as T'Les keeps recommending.

Envy. For this comfortable, warm break from responsibilities? For the companionable tone of their conversation? His colleagues' complete confidence and security?

All of the above, perhaps.

There is no logical reason to fear the future – or anything else that cannot be changed. And despite Spock's occasional doubts about his decisions – both personal and professional – he is here, a commander of the Federation's flagship, surrounded by friends.

Perhaps, then, he should follow Jim's earlier advice and allow his situation to speak for itself. Accept what comes and stop measuring himself against impossible and ill-defined standards.

Oddly, the Zee-Magnus Prize suddenly doesn't seem so distasteful.

“Oh look,” says Uhura. “It's the real hero of the hour.”

They all turn.

“How does that cat keep escaping, Spock?” Kirk wonders.

“I am uncertain. But I am demoting Ensign Gardner.”

“That seems harsh.”

“It is not.”

Why is Specimen in the rec room. There are regulations against this.

Not that Captain Kirk seems to care. So Spock probably doesn't have to care either.

He sips his tea.

“Saved by a cat,” McCoy mutters in disgust, watching as across the rec room Yeoman Rand waves a feather in front of the creature's nose. Specimen watches her with narrow eyes, tail twitching, but otherwise makes no move to engage. “Didn't your people examine the other samples from that planet, Spock? Why did it take so long to figure out?”

“We examined the general structure of life from Theta Aranis III,” says Spock with great dignity. “You must excuse us, Doctor, if the oil secretions of one particular mammal did not seem important to our crisis.”

“You're not excused. One of those damn plants burned a hole in a biomonitor...”

“That's what I still don't understand,” Kirk interrupts. “The damage reports we've had – it sounds like these things would be incompatible with any other life-forms. I don't understand how anything else could survive on this planet. What kind of plant needs to develop such aggressive acid?”

“We have no evidence that the cat's secretions were unique,” Spock suggests. “A natural defense mechanism, perhaps, which has become common on that world. Certainly it would be necessary for other organisms to develop countermeasures, to prevent this plant from overtaking the rest of the ecosystem.”

“I assume you'll keep studying it?”

“Yes. The cat has been marked as a priority subject for research.”

McCoy squints at Spock and opens his mouth. Elbowing him, Kirk says, “Glad to hear it.”

* * *

“Mr. Sulu, you may _not_ keep a cutting of Specimen TA541.”

Chekov snickers softly from his seat. Beside him Sulu swivels in his chair, eyebrows raised in apparent affront. “Now, come on, Sir,” he insists. “As long as proper containment is followed there shouldn't be any harm in it.”

“Proper containment,” Spock muses, checking the readouts at his station again. He hates being away from the bridge for so long, even though his replacements are surely capable. “Such as how you 'contained...' Grimhilde, I believe you named it?”

Chekov laughs openly this time; Sulu grimaces, evidently quite able to recall the disastrous week one of 'experimental' plants escaped containment, latched its vines into a visiting diplomat, and clung to the poor man for five hours before they finally burnt it off. “Now in my defense Commander,” says Sulu, “I really didn't realize that breed of flower needed a host. And I got a very interesting paper out of it.”

“The answer is no.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Barely trying to hide his amusement, Kirk hands a datapadd to Yeoman Rand as McCoy steps out of the turbolift. “Bones, can you believe that Spock won't let Sulu keep a sample of that plant? I bet he could breed a whole garden of it.”

“Why on Earth do you want to keep one of those things?” McCoy asks. “See, Jim, this is why I insist on visiting the bridge; establishing the mental-health of bridge officers. And something's definitely wrong with your helmsman.”

“It's the company, Doctor,” Sulu calls over his shoulder.

Spock raises an eyebrow, only paying peripheral attention to the cheerful conversation as he double-checks the station. Such banter is a good sign, he knows; the crew often grows exuberant and gregarious after a successful mission. It's a sign of positive morale, which is why Kirk allows – encourages – this sort of informal talk.

Rand gives the captain another datapadd. To his mournful eyes she just huffs, tapping her foot impatiently until he sinks into his seat and starts reading.

“ - of course,” McCoy is saying, “This all would have been easier if _someone_ hadn't skived off to Vulcan and _disobeyed medical orders for a month -_ “

Spock refuses to dignify that with a reply.

“Our reports for this are going to be a mess,” McCoy adds. “You ever think about those poor suckers back at Command who have to review this stuff? Oh, sure, we almost lost an entire spaceship because of _overly-horny plants_ that wouldn't stop sowing their wild oats - “

Kirk rolls his eyes, catches Rand's glare, and ducks back over the datapadd.

“That all being said,” McCoy muses, now apparently talking to no one in particular, “I'm going to recommend an additional survey team for the godawful planet that spawned those things – there might be some interesting medical implications in an entire biome that doesn't just dissolve in the face of that acid.”

Spock arches an eyebrow. He intends to study Specimen for a similar reason, in fairness, but... “Do you have some scientific basis for this belief?”

“I've got a feeling.”

“A feeling.”

“Gut instinct, Spock. It motivates a lot of research. Nothing wrong with it.”

“I see,” says Spock. “You are, I supposed, proud of the illogical rationale that helped you reach this conclusion?”

“All the best discoveries stem from good old human intuition.”

“Human?”

“Vulcans don't have intuition,” McCoy explains. “Pretty sure you lot just reach decisions through logic-trees and statistics.”

Spock briefly recalls the flash of insight when he realized the dirt filling the ship was, in fact, seeds. “And you consider yourself an expert on Vulcans, Doctor?”

“Thanks to you I've read more Vulcan medical journals than I've ever wanted, Spock. And one thing I notice is that Vulcans are great at setting up rigorous, thorough tests for analysis, and absolutely horrible at making any big inventive leaps.”

“A crude generalization.”

“Listen,” says McCoy. “It's just a reflection of culture. It makes sense. Humans _add_ to themselves, we reach to make the most of things, and that means we take risks. Vulcans don't, because they like to curb down everything they are to the bare minimum. Like some sort of OCD compulsion.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “How so, Doctor?”

“How – In _every possible way!_ Vulcans are too busy deeming every piece of their history illogical or excessive to make anything new. Or, hell, look at what people do to their bodies – it's trendy on human planets to get tattoos, piercings, extra _limbs_ if you can prove you have a need for it – do you know what trend is happening on Vulcan right now?” he demands of the captain, valiantly pretending to ignore them. “Voluntary castration!”

Kirk chokes and almost drops his padd.

“If you are aware of the movement,” says Spock, unfazed, “Then you are aware of the chemical benefits. With increased availability of artificial insemination - “

“Spock, if you ever came to me with a request like that I'd put you on psychiatric hold.”

“I have considered it.”

“You - !”

“The two month recovery period would be quite inconvenient to my duties. And as my latest absence coincided with our most recent emergency, due in part to your department's ignorance regarding the significance of my injuries on Theta Aranis III - ”

“Bones, Spock,” Kirk bursts, briefly covering his face with one hand. “Could you _not_ discuss this here? Please?”

They pause. Spock realizes, to his chagrin, that _everyone_ seems distracted. Dr. McCoy really does have a unique way of utterly inconveniencing the bridge. Spock taps a few keys to move his console into standby. Rises. “I am needed back in the labs, Captain – you may continue to entertain the doctor's disregard for science if it pleases you.”

Kirk waves him away. As the turbolift doors shut he hears the captain asking, “Now I'm genuinely curious, Bones – did you just _bribe_ your Interspecies Relations instructor at the academy, or - “

“Oh, shut up.”

* * *

The decontamination process continues. There are two brief incidents that result in a sizable part of deck eight's floor dissolving, but within several more hours the vessel is largely cleared, with only a few resigned teams scouring the _Enterprise_ 's corners for more seeds.

Kirk invites Spock to 'chat' in his quarters. If he is not even pretending to have some recreational purpose in mind, Spock anticipates a serious conversation. But in the end he accepts: Spock arrives at 2000 hours precisely.

Kirk insists on plying him with tea when Spock arrives. An ominous sign, considering that he hates the smell. He also prods Spock into sitting on a small couch in the side of the room, rather than across one another at the customary table. The way he sits next to Spock – tilted to look at him, body language open – reminds Spock rather vividly and uncomfortably of certain lessons on communication from command-classes. To encourage trust, put yourself at the level of an upset person. Convey that you're paying attention. Maintain eye-contact and orient your body toward the other speaker.

Spock sips his tea and pointedly leans away.

As always, Kirk can't do what he expects.

“I think you should keep the cat,” he declares.

“The cat, Sir?”

“Speckles.”

Specimen. Spock does not correct him. “Pets are an unnecessary indulgence. Especially on a starship.”

“Animal test subjects are only kept for a few months; you'll be able to study her better aboard the ship,” Kirk says. Which – is quite true. “And I'm sure we can get it approved.”

Spock thinks of sleeping on I-Chaya's back on cold Vulcan nights; the cat purring on his chest. But nostalgia is illogical. “Was there something else you wanted to discuss, Sir?”

Kirk just watches him for a moment. Impossibly he leans in closer, eyes shining dark and serious. “How are you doing, Spock?”

Something about the softness of this question makes it worse. It would help, he thinks, if Kirk could sound anything but sincere and compassionate. It would be easier to ignore him, or prevaricate. Spock sets aside his tea to consider the question. “Fine,” he decides. And, when Kirk frowns: “Better.”

Kirk's expression softens. “Better,” he repeats, gentle. “I'm glad to hear it.”

The low, tender tone of his voice brings Spock back to that moment with Mr Scott, in the recreation room, when his entire chest went tight and warm. But the feeling is amplified a hundred-fold. Then Kirk leans closer, reaching out to take him in a half-embrace, which only exacerbates his condition. Realization keeps Spock frozen in his seat – but Kirk doesn't seem to mind.

Kirk keeps a heavy hand supporting the back of Spock's neck, one thumb rubbing in slow circles.

It feels...

“Forgive my emotionalism,” says Kirk with a self-deprecating smile. He draws back just a bit – still holding Spock, and still unbearably close. “Spock, I've never felt so afraid as when I realized what you'd done that night - “ A pause. “You're the best friend I've ever had. I don't think I say that enough, and losing you...” Kirk hesitates over his words. “You'll talk to me if you ever need help. Won't you?”

“Yes,” replies Spock, quiet. In this moment he might promise anything – but, oddly enough, he thinks he might mean it. “ - Thank you, Jim. I, also...”

Spock doesn't know how to frame the wonderful, frightening feelings roiling in his chest. He trails off.

He thinks Kirk understands anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kirk you can't DO these things and expect people to NOT fall in love with you.  
> This fic is... not Spirk endgame, I am so sorry. Spock is just Very Gay. Also I've been toying with a Scotty/Uhura/Spock fic and that definitely colored this chapter.  
> Almost done!


	13. Chapter 13

Collar jangling, Specimen the cat rolls casually in front of the computer screen, blocking T'Les' blank face. Spock shoves the cat away, who allows herself to slide bonelessly across his desk. A few seconds later she slowly and lazily flops back into place.

Resigned, Spock sets her in his lap. The cat's fur fades to a light blue.

She purrs.

“Before we end today's session,” T'Les interrupts his staring match with the feline, “Do you care to discuss the recent trials, or Velorak's circumstances?”

The name surprises him. Spock buries a hand in Specimen's thick fur. “I have not followed Velorak's case,” he admits. “To what developments do you refer?”

She tells him. After a pause, Spock informs her that he will need to meditate on the matter, but naturally they can discuss it in two weeks during their next assigned talk.

T'Les levels him a long look. “Very well – but contact me sooner if necessary,” she instructs. Spock promises he will.

T'Les goes on to inform him that three of his past teachers from childhood have been prosecuted for unprofessional behavior, child neglect, and telepathic assault respectively. Spock accepts this news with a sense of growing numbness. He knew that T'Les reported several old instructors after their meld on Vulcan – knew this was a possibility – yet somehow he never imagined there would be consequences.

Vulcan has never cared to defend him before, after all. But perhaps Spock was always looking for support in the wrong places.

He tells T'Les he has no opinion on the subject of the trials. It's a lie, which they both know, but she doesn't says so. They discuss some inconsequential details of Spock's recent meditation-habits until his allotted time runs out.

Afterward, Spock sits and pets Specimen in silence for nearly an hour.

* * *

  
Here is one of the things Spock has not yet told T'Les (although this, too, she probably knows): he still thinks about it.

He remembers the confrontation with Chapel, his own hasty retreat to his quarters. The knives on the wall, and his ill-prepared failure to end his own life.

Spock wonders when he will stop thinking of it that way – a failure. Vulcans can control their own minds. Section away thoughts, ideas, memories. But it's a dangerous skill, and one Spock rarely uses. It can be addictive, wiping clean your mistakes. And Spock has already demonstrated poor control over himself.

He wonders if Velorak ever thought about such things, before _his_ suicide. How easy it would have been to clean himself of regrets and controversies and violence. But Velorak killed himself, T'Les told him. And _his_ hand apparently did not slip.

With one act Velorak's death removed a wealth of information. What was his full relationship with Romulus? Did he love that other planet of his blood – did he hate it? Why did his father's family never reach out to Vulcan during the trial proceedings? What made Velorak choose to act out against Spock's family _now?_

And during those long years of Spock's childhood – did he ever care?

If he had succeeded, Spock wonders what his crewmates would have thought of his own death. They would have never understood, not really. But they'd gossip about it just as he overhears Yeoman Rand giggling about the scandalous affair between two scientists, or the embarrassing demotion of Ensign Gardner.

Spock has never been inclined toward gossip. Now, alone in his quarters, he thinks he might understand the impulse. Spock was never terribly curious about Velorak's reasons for poisoning him – he learned enough to satisfy legal questions, and that seemed to suffice. Yet now he finds himself wondering: did Velorak regret his actions? Conversely, did he experience shame for the failure of plans? Did he merely fear the results of his betrayal?

Some strong emotion, Spock knows, must have lain behind the decision. There are few logical motives for suicide.

But Velorak is gone. And all his answers, his experiences, the sum total of his life's knowledge – it all vanished with him.

* * *

One of the most important classes for young Vulcans is desert survival. For children of five and six, this standard class holds two purposes: preparing them for genuine emergency scenarios, and presaging the _kahs-wan_ most boys undergo at the age of seven.

Spock never found the lessons difficult, unlike many of his city-bred classmates. Though the first years of his life were spend under an almost paranoid progression of medical tests and coddling, it quickly became apparent that Spock suffered few ills effects from his experimental biology. In his toddling years, when Amanda found herself busy with other work (Sarek rarely watched Spock personally) household servants found it easiest to divert Spock by taking him out into the estate's greenhouses, or letting him explore the expansive grounds. At that age Spock would carefully hold the sleeve of his latest attendant as they answered his unending questions – Why do snakes burrow beneath the ground? How do plants absorb water? Why are the stars hidden during the day? How do different rocks form, and why are some small and others large?

Despite the frequent absences of his parents, there was never a time in his early years that Spock was without adults to approach for aid. Though it became difficult, as time passed, to watch an increasing number of minders walk away at the end of their services. To realize that speaking with him, tolerating him, was a paid duty and nothing more.

Sometimes Sybok would take him for short 'camping' trips under the stars – often against Sarek's express permission. This was not borne of any sense of duty. But Sybok soon left all the same.

So Spock was well-acquainted with the outdoors, and his questions left him more knowledgeable than many of his peers. But he was, nonetheless, a child. And children are not always attentive to their surroundings.

A year before his _kahs-wan_ Spock accompanied a class of six into the fringes of Vulcan's Forge. They did not venture far; the instructor took them out in a small shuttle, which was always relatively close. It was a day for practical lessons, not a test of their skills.

Instructor T'Sara demonstrated water-collection techniques that day – a very important task. The children were crowded around her to observe as she dug a hole around the roots of a _d'lechu_ plant, which often captured water in their flesh for later usage, when Spock stepped aside to get a better view and stumbled over something slippery. A second later he felt a hard pinch on his ankle and fell to the ground. Something writhed away in the corner of his vision.

It was, one of the other students rapidly identified, an _oluhkee_ snake. Poisonous. The students looked at Instructor T'Sara, who bent to examine the green puncture-wounds on Spock's leg.

Then she rose. “Wrap it in bandages,” she said. “We will continue the lesson.”

The students looked at each other, wide-eyed. “...But _oluhkee_ are venomous,” said one girl, uncertain.

“Their poison is dependent on the presence of copper in the blood,” T'Sara said. “They are not poisonous to humans.”

A boy kneeling next to Spock – Rekal was his name – spoke up. Rekal was a very quiet student; it may have been the first time Spock heard him speak. “But Spock has green blood, like us.” Rekal glanced about at every other student, head tilted as though there was _some_ obvious detail he must be missing.

T'Sara just said, “He will be fine. Rekal, assist him in bandaging the injury. Now, if you look at the root system of the _d'lechu_...”

Uncertain, the children moved away from Spock. Rekal helped clumsily bind his ankle, but within minutes it had swollen to an outrageous size and flushed a painful green. Sweat broke out over Spock's skin. He felt dizzy. The other students kept sneaking them glances. Still kneeling next to Spock, Rekal reached out to hold his hand.

T'Sara paused her lecture to chide them for 'inappropriate behavior,' even though Rekal was just sending weak, comforting thoughts through the faint connection of their hands. Rekal did not answer, but just kept his fingers laced with Spock's, staring at her in silence.

“We should summon a doctor,” said one of the girls.

“This lesson will proceed without further interruptions,” T'Sara snapped.

And it did. It became harder and harder for Spock to focus, though, and soon he found himself unable to sit upright. Rekal was holding him tightly; Spock could feel the boy's heart pounding fast against his side. Twice the other children informed T'Sara that “Spock appears to be in a state of distress, Instructor,” but she only told them to be quiet.

And then Spock fainted. Evidently this, at least, was sufficient provocation for T'Sara to call emergency services.

At the hospital, Spock was informed that his unique biology actually made him _more_ prone to _ohlukee_ venom.

Weeks later, Spock would try to seek out Rekal. He sat next to the boy as they awaited their next class under T'Sara. But Rekal would not meet his gaze. Just before the lesson began Rekal turned, blurted, “I apologize,” and fled, evidently uncomfortable in his presence.

Spock did not try to approach him again.

Spock knows, of course, that Instructor T'Sara's behavior was inappropriate. But there were no consequences for her - even though Spock later received a strict lecture on risky behaviors and the perils of failing to report health problems. Thinking of the incident always gave him a horrible, shameful urge to hide away, and he did not believe he could discuss it without showing obvious emotion.

So he never tried.

But now T'Sara has been sentenced to a minimum of three years in a Vulcan rehabilitative program. She has been stripped of teaching privileges. She is not permitted to work alone with children.

Perhaps Spock should be satisfied with this. Instead he finds his hands shaking; he can't identify the emotion he experiences.

What is the logic, Spock wonders, in punishing someone thirty years too late? But that is only his fault for not speaking sooner. T'Sara did nothing wrong, assuming he had human physiology, but at the same time Spock should have said something, and if she was harsh he only brought it on himself...

Trying to distract himself, Spock checks his inbox and notices a message from Ambassador Sarek. Two messages.

The first is a simple request to call Vulcan at Spock's earliest convenience. The second – timestamped less than two hours later – is much longer. It summarizes the court cases, which naturally have been publicized. It asks Spock why he never reported these events. As though Sarek actually expects logic from his useless half-human son.

He should have died during that class, Spock thinks. T'Sara meant to let him die. Maybe there was a reason for that.

Looking through the other two court cases is perhaps a poor method of distraction. Certainly he regrets it. It does not help to learn that the genetics teacher, who taught Spock from the ages of 13 to 15, has been chastised for unprofessional behavior and harassment because of his many pointed remarks on Spock's biology. Yet Spock has suffered worse from other sources.

Nor does he want to know that one of the mind-healers he met at the age of eight, meant to check the strength of his bond with T'Pring, has been given a six-year confinement for forcibly removing several of Spock's more emotionally-charged, happy childhood memories, trying to helpfully shape him into a more appropriate Vulcan.

It doesn't matter.

There are a hundred similar incidents Spock could name, and he knows there will be more. Last year Lieutenant Stiles accused him of being heartless and traitorous. Captain Kirk compared him to a mongrel dog. Under duress, admittedly, but the insults poured from his lips too easily.

It's not going to end. Spock may experience brief moments of respite between the disdain he receives from every corner. But these experiences will always arise in new and terrible ways, and it is hard, as he sits staring at these reminders, to remember why the benefits of life are meant to outweigh its hardships.

When Spock first woke in Sickbay after his _pon farr_ was averted Dr. McCoy demanded to know _why_ Spock tried to kill himself.

Spock still cannot answer.

This question – the way McCoy posed it – seems to presuppose that there exists some single, driving motivation for Spock's internal conflict. There was, of course, the _pon farr_ itself – but that was only a tipping point. Spock's choice was not entirely dependent on any recent circumstances.

He imagines that this is why suicide remains incomprehensible to so many. It's hard to envision a single event that could definitively compel a person to destroy themselves. That's because there is rarely one such event. For Spock, at least, his decision was the culmination of years of quiet hurts – small and individually insignificant moments that cracked his foundations, chipping away for years at a mind bruised and damaged under a surface of quiet composure. The exterior is flawless but the house is rotten. And it does not take much, in such circumstances, to trigger a collapse.

There are no easy cures for such a complete rot. Spock does not know if it is possible to apply anything but a patch-job. He might attend sessions with mind-healers for years, struggling to maintain his mind even as it crumbles from within. Perhaps he will not worsen, but it seems inconceivable that he might reach a state of real repair.

Maybe it is not worth trying.

The light on the computer pulses quietly. Spock measures his breaths against it, trying to calm the agitation under his skin.

He sits awhile, half-meditating, struggling to reach some semblance of tranquility. He fails. It is not surprising. Of course he fails; he always does..

He needs – something. Needs to _do_ something, because he made a promise. Spock keeps his promises, which means he needs to distract himself from the glint of metal hanging on his walls, a dozen razor-sharp instruments.

Sleep medication in the cabinet.

Environmental controls.

Illogical. He stands.

Kirk looks surprised to find Spock at his door; the hour is late. But he doesn't ask questions when Spock requests his company. They end up sitting together inside, a chess set between them more for appearances than anything else.

The problem, which they both know, is this: Spock can never admit the truth. Not without incriminating himself and confessing to the type of mental instability that would obligate Kirk to have him removed from the ship.

So when Kirk quietly asks if he needs help, Spock says nothing – just bows his head.

But this time, when Kirk reaches out, he lets himself reach back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be (at least) two sequels at... some point. The first is just a one-shot, and almost done, so hopefully it shouldn't take too long.  
> ...The second sequel will probably be longer than this fic. And much, much angstier. Sigh.  
> Thank you to everyone who commented - it's lovely to receive feedback.


End file.
